Family Ties
by TheSheepSpeak
Summary: Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes doesn't do Family Gatherings. Why go this time? Why is John introduced as his date? Sherlock's past will be revealed? How will John react? J/S
1. Discretion

**-Authors Note-**

**Hi, this is my first attempt at sharing some fanfiction I've been writing. Sorry for mispells/ooc/language. BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me, **

**This Stories Picture was drawn by me, Want a closer look? Go to my DeviantArt-Link in my profile. Do not use without permission PLEASE. **

**Enjoy~**

* * *

Pressure on his thumb was the reason John Watsons face was contorted into frustration, he let out a held breath and cursed. He knew this was a life or death situation and if he didn't get this back on the wall before Sherlock made his way back into the room he would hear about it for days. Not that the man wouldn't be able to deduce why it was off the wall in the first place. He set back on his heels after the tack finally made its home into the wall.

"There, good." He sighed heavily and stepped back to admire it, avoiding the clutter around his feet. He stood straighter and stretched his neck up to Sherlock height and stared at it wildly, pulling down at his cozy light clay colored jumper, he huffed again in satisfaction,

"No difference I can see." He turned to walk away but stopped abruptly, "Oh," he turned to look again just to make sure because he knew better than to think he knew better.

A slight jingle of the downstairs door handle put his mind into a slight flurry of panic. He reached out to scrap the whole ordeal and take the bloody thing off the wall in an effort to just come clean about it to his flat mate and leave it alone-however the higher powers of the world found their way to swat him and his un-dodgy ways of doing things. He stumbled a little on the river of books on the floor, not learning from previous encounters, and it only got worse once the door slammed open.

In fact, slammed so hard the walls shook and the damn thing came off its fragile hold on the wall and dropped briefly into the clammy hands of the Doctors, he made a grunt through clenched teeth and cursed himself for not just letting it fall where it would have looked an accident.

Damn him.

Now as Sherlock flew his way up the stairs and into the room, the situation was compromised.

"Well—" There was a flash of Sherlock's brown curls whizzing by him.

"Oh do shut it John. You know I think it's redundant to say hi every time we meet, good God, did you make raspberry tea again? Watson, do try to restrain from your habit of piddling with my collection on the—" His eyes finally landed on John after widely running across the damaged muck of a flat, he held himself up right as always and his eyebrows turned down in a way John's only seen when the man is stuck on a murderers motive. Sherlock took one look at the glass case in his hands and the expression was lifted and replaced with a blank stare.

John cleared his throat, "Rather rude to just barge in that way, you know." He pushed out through his lips, tucking the case to his side as if it belonged there.

Sherlock stood inert.

"You didn't have to come in shouting and slamming bloody doors. I get the picture. You want to be left alone, alright then." John straightened his already stiff posture and attempted to move to the door.

"You messed up my case."

"What? I'm sorry what?" He tried to play innocent, but Sherlock was looking at the box in his right arm intently, almost longingly, "Oh, right right, well—You slammed the bloody door and it decided to fall off the wall, it was good that I was standing—" His pointing and explaining was interrupted when the tall man closed the space between them, flawlessly and gracefully avoiding the clutter on the floor and snatched the box possessively.

John was taken through a loop, now wondering what the hell he was trying to accomplish here.

"Yes, take it." John backed up a tad feeling a little backed into a conversational corner.

Sherlock turned it over in his hands, seeing the bullets inside had no damage, "You've replaced the glass."

John couldn't get out of this. He had already seen this coming, "Yes it broke whilst you were gone as I was trying to clean your damn mess." He said rather quickly in defense. It wasn't a total lie.

The man reacted rather unexpectedly, Sherlock pushed the case to his chest as if to protect it from the air itself and he whipped around to face the flat again and shifted his eyes to further examine the damage that John was claiming to have done.

John found it best to sway the topic, "What are you wearing? It's hell past a bit nippy outside."

"Yeeess." Sherlock drawled out. John could feel the man's rolled eyes.

That wasn't a good answer. Sherlock had rushed into the flat too fast to have discarded his coat, so he went out without it. He had a black buttoned up shirt, loose and no longer-half tucked into his tinted dark brown pants. His face paler than normal and his heavy intake of breath, that and his wild eyes made John turn into the man's worrying house wife, "Sherlock, you're shivering like a leaf, sit down and I'll fetch Mrs. Hudson for a cuppa and-well you're lucky you won't catch a damn cold that way." He turned to only get halfway down the stairs after calling the land lady when he looked back to see the man still standing there, his shoulders slumped now, "Sherlock are you listening? Go put your coat on."

"I must take leave." The man muttered so softly John carried himself back up the two stairs to hear him better.

"You have to what?"

"John! The case!" Sherlock exploded, turning on his heel and tossing the glass case into the couch making John cringe, and then his cold as ice fingers grabbed John's shoulders and whipped him around clumsily to where they were suddenly in the opposite place. That was all he had time to realize before Sherlock made his way down the stairs again, this time Mrs. Hudson had been closing the door in time to shrink back as Sherlock tossed it open again, almost hitting her in his hurry.

"_Sherlock!?_" John shouted, now getting past worried to anger; he made it down half the stairs and shot an apologetic look at his land lady. She just looked a little shell shocked as he passed in the same manner.

The cold of the late fall hit him instantly; he huffed out and looked down the street.

Sherlock was gone within seconds.

How the bloody hell did he manage such a thing?

"Another one of your quarrels has my door taking the aftermath," Mrs. Hudson said from behind him, "There's no telling where he's gone to."

"Yeah." He gave another look down the streets for any sign, only to start to head back inside, passing Mrs. Hudson without another word. She let out a worry sigh and shut the cold out, "Do hope he doesn't' come back sick as he ought to be without proper clothes,"

-ooOOoo-

Eyes greeted the clock for the fifth time that evening. John had the telly on properly trying his hardest to occupy his attention away from thoughts of his flat mate being out past nine at night.

Damn him.

John also took time to curse himself and maybe even Sherlock's mother for failing to teach her son how to dress proper in cold weather. He said hi to the clock again on instinct, it was almost ten.

John turned off the telly and took a breath before noting his work in the morning and how he needed sleep regardless. He kicked at the cluttered floor and meant to continue to the stairs but found himself hesitating with his eyes fixated on the front door. Sherlock _could_ come through any minute.

Any second.

Maybe he should warm something up in case he did.

No, no. Serves Sherlock right for not listening to him or replying to his texts. Damn it.

He flipped his phone open:

.

SENT: 7:46pm

Gonna tell me where you went off to? J.

.

SENT: 8:12pm

Mrs. H made warm tea and biscuits. Do hope there's some left for you. Oh, get eggs while you r out. J.

.

SENT: 9:34pm

Answer your phone Sherlock. We really need eggs for the morning breakfast. J.

.

SENT: 9:38pm

And milk. Got rid of the animal parts. Had spoiled the whole kitchen. You said a week at max. It's been three. J.

.

John got ready to send another one.

SEND: 10:03pm

Tired of waiting. Went to bed. Don't be loud when you come in. J.

.

He sent it in an almost anger. Maybe he was more frustrated.

He spotted a white paper pushed against the wall as if pushed aside by the door. Looked like a letter.

John scurried down the rusted stairs and took hold of the small letter on the shoe mat. It read to Mrs. Hudson, unfortunately not from who he thought it might have been. Regardless, better than Mycroft; who wrote almost on a regular monthly schedule. Although he's never read those, Sherlock normally didn't give him a chance.

Or himself a chance at that.

He put the letter on a side table near his sweet landlady's door and hoped she would find it acceptable he didn't wake her to give it up, it looked rather unimportant.

He found himself opening the door on his way back to the stairs, making sure it was unlocked from the outside, he instantly regretted it as the cold air slapped him in the face. Significantly chillier than the previous hours, John squinted and remembered the weather saying possible snow fall around this time.

He shut the door with the help of the wind and it practically slammed.

He shushed it and went up to his room with all thoughts of how tired he suddenly was.

His bed was warm within seconds of him snuggling into the duvet and he sighed before he drifted off.

-ooOOoo-

** Authors Note-**

**Hope Sherlock will be alright outside without his coat. **

**Be prepared for some unexpected events/ ooohhh**


	2. Ice Ice Baby

**Author's Note-**

**Let's see why John has slept undisturbed..**

* * *

John's quiet alarm always made its beeping heard to him enough to slump out of bed. He was good at waking just before it went off, however that was normally due to being up anyhow because of Sherlock. Because, that man hardly slept and when he did it was strange hours and he was always up before John.

His eyes fluttered open further at the thought.

_Was he home?_ He shuffled to turn on his bedside lamp and checked the time.

4:06am. He woke up earlier on some Thursdays of a week to help Sally with their overnight patients. He had a heads up about it that last Tuesday at the clinic.

His hands clasped his phone. He forgot to plug it in last night and the battery had died. That sounded about right to him.

He plugged it in and continued on with his routine. He stretched and made his way to the shower across the hall, noting no noise coming from below.

Nothing.

His shower was warmer because the flat was freezing from the snow last night, first snow of the season, but it should be a slurry leaf filled mess out in the streets. John hated the cold.

He took extra-long and emerged with an oversized red sweater his mum had gotten him one Christmas, he could pass it for a dress. In fact it may look he wasn't wearing pants beneath it, but of course he was. Then back to his room making good time. He could get to the hospital around quarter past five judging it briefly.

Still no noise down below him.

Normally there was something if they weren't working on a case.

He wondered if Sherlock had been to see Lastrade about a case last night somehow. Considering that's the only clue he shouted. Unless he spoke of the incident with the bullet display case. He doubted it.

How could he know, this was Sherlock he was trying to figure.

There was a strange noise suddenly, making him almost feel relieved.

_Scratching?_

John got his clothes from the drawer now feeling the order back in 221B restored.

The scratching turned to a tapping. A light, almost feint tapping; as if on glass. John wondered if Sherlock needed some supervision. He needed coffee started anyhow, Forgetting his current dressed state, he only pushed the sweater up in an attempt to make it normal. He went down the stairs into the living space to get to the kitchen.

_No Sherlock?_

There was no mop of curly hair lying about the floor or couch. No lanky legs covering the chair arms. No figure gazing out the found his pathway through the mess undisturbed, normally it was pushed back into chaos.

He poked his head in the kitchen.

_No one._

He looked down at the door, saw it was locked.

Surely Mrs. Hudson wouldn't lock the door unless she knew Sherlock made it in. However, it was unlike him to sleep this long. _He could have come in late_. John figured, he turned back to get coffee ready, when he stumbled back to look at the front door again.

The letter to Mrs. Hudson was gone off the end table!

_Oh bloody hell! Of all the stupid things!_

He forgot about coffee instantly and took the steps up to his room two at a time. He _busted_ in and shoved his curtains above his desk aside to show the small fire escape ledge outside.

He let out a startled scream and his heart dropped past his stomach,

"_Sherlock!?_ Oh, Christ!"

Sherlock's face pressed into the glass, pink and pale with his breath fogging around his blue lips thinly. Thin frail fingers pressed on the other side; trembling and tapping the window faintly.

"Oh Christ!" He swore again, pushing the window open, pulling papers off his desk in a mad rush to save his frozen to death friend.

Whose eyes opened up and he smiled lazily once the window opened,

"J-J'n," he breathed, "You-you got, got up early today." His voice and lips cracked and sounding hoarse; He fumbled forward onto the desk.

"Sherlock? Damn it! You haven't been out there all night?" John caught him by the shoulders and attempted to help him inside. Sherlock's elbows and stiff limbs toppled John's things all over the floor.

The man suddenly frowned, halfway through the window. He looked up pitifully at John,

"What? What's the matter?" John panicked,

"Misss, 'udson locked m-me out." He stated with wide eyes.

John almost felt the urge to roll his eyes in return, "yes, yes. Come off it now, come on-help me out here." He pulled him carefully, feeling the unbelievable cold goose-bumps along the man's uncovered arms.

Snow that collected on him fell mercifully, "J-'n, John?"

"You could help a little here Sherlock? What?"

He was like a cold sack of potatoes in John's arms, still halfway in a snow pile outside the window.

"Are y-you n'ot wearing pants?"

John stopped to look down at his sweater dress.

Then met Sherlock's suggestively wicked eye brow raised eyes, and John's face held an affronted scowl, "Sherlock get out of the damn cold and get in here. Of course I'm wearing bloody trousers under here! This was the only thing warm I own! I can't believe you right now."

"Can't b'lieve you threw ou-out my raccoon." He countered with an equal frown and disappointed pout. He shuddered and wrapped up in himself violently.

His blue tinted lips sucked in a breath.

"And that was hypothermia, damn it." John growled.

"You, you also b'oke m-my case, J-J—"

"Shut it!" John pulled with enough anger to slide the man fully inside, toppling his unmoving body over him. "Oomph-!"

The cold radiating off Sherlock was immensely uncomfortable, John wiggled under him, "get off, will ya?"

Sherlock's head was nestled on john's shoulder, "Can't."

"Bloody roll then!"

"D'nt wanna. . . I'm ti'red John, so, sooo tired."

"Damn it!" John pushed at the heavier man, "I'm going to take you to the hospital if you don't at the least-this isn't funny Sherlock!"

The man let out a breath as if a mocking laugh. John hardly lost it, flipping him over and avoiding his reaching hands, which wanted to cling to him, then shoving him to sit up against the bed. "You are so accident prone, and so irritating, and you worried the hell out of me last night. Why didn't you tell me where you were?" He threw his duvet blanket over the man in a despite attempt at warming him. Sherlock shivered as if on cue, violently trembling, he tried to answer his innocuous question.

"You, d'nt throw away the, uh, the whole specimen?"

John now rolled his eyes without mercy, he could only talk about the guts that were thrown out of the fridge last night. Damn him.

"Okay, right then, you don't want to talk, that's fine, don't. It's better anyhow. Just get up here, er, on my bed. Get warm, I'll make you something downstairs." He closed the window to shut the cold out.

Sherlock attempted to move with little effort, than stared at John blankly.

"But that's your bed, J-John."

"Yes, get up there. It'll have to do."

"It's not my bed. . . John." He curled into the blanket again.

"Stop your fuss, get warm. Don't fret over the mess here, I got it."

"Not fretting." Sherlock mumbled coldly and stumbled and worked his way up to flop on the bed sideways. He groaned.

"Properly Sherlock, now." John shoved some of his wet papers, painfully, in the trash, "Stop that."

Sherlock grunted back, having a dramatic time flipping over to John's pillow. He mumbled about it not being his bed, but was quiet once his eyes shut in defeat.

John shook his head. "I'm going to get you dry clothes and you aren't going to move to do anything but shiver. Keep shivering if you can-"

"Why, why are you s'll h-here?" Sherlock grumbled, "I'm f'n."

John flew his hands up in defeat. His friend was lucky he wasn't unconscious when found, or that John was going to take him to a hospital.

So far at least. "Hey, keep you're eyes open, you can't sleep right now, sit up!" John knew better than to let possible hypothermic patients fall asleep.

A hospital would be easier.

"Don't you move," he warned on his way out, hearing another grunt behind him. There was no way he would be on time now.

Always Sherlock's fault, Sally never liked that excuse no matter how ridiculous the truth was.

John didn't tackle the living room until after he started the kettle. Getting to Sherlock's room was difficult enough, now that he was there he felt at a loss on what he should being for him to wear. He had to hurry to check on Sherlock's temperature.

There was the sound of someone on the stairs.

John cursed and grabbed some flannel bottoms and decided to rush out, slipping on a book on the floor for not the first time that week, and determined and ready to shout at Sherlock, "You—!"

"Oh!" He turned the corner to the hallway with a startle.

"Oh!?" Mrs. Hudson grabbed her chest in the same shock. She hadn't expected John to be so frightened, "oh dear! Haha, you gave me a fright there, you did, John,"

"I'd say the same Mrs. Hudson." John breathed out, "what are you doing up this early?" He knew she never woke when he did.

She flicked her eyes upward to think, "oh, I do believe the poor love came in last night. Thought it awful quiet it did, that is until you were up with quite the commotion up stairs this morning? Hm?"

John looked frazzled, "yes, do hope we didn't wake you," he planned on maneuvering past her, she let out another, "oh? We? Is Sherlock up there too, love?"

"mhm-yes. Must get back before he freezes to death." He came upon the stairs.

She looked him up and down, her eyes landing on his sweater, than Sherlock's pants in his hands, and she smiled a little too sweetly, "Good to know you've become so close so fast there," she turned as John was stuttering out a reply, "give him my love," she winked, "and yours too of course," she smiled again and went back down to her room.

"Oh no, no. God. No-wait! No. Uh, oh God." John made a face at his sweater and vowed to tuck it in the back of his drawer.

The kettle went off and he slumped down and got a hot cup of tea. He knew time was precious here and Sherlock needed attention fast if he had hypothermia. God help him if he loses a toe.

He made it back now noticing how cold it was in his room. Sherlock was sitting up, thank God, and looking at his trembling hands, clasping them.

They made eye contact as John put the tea on the table, "Here, sip it slowly."

"I cannot feel my f-fingers."

John set the pants at the end of the bed and gave him the cup gently, "Just hold this then." He watched Sherlock smell it, "Now, get out of those clothes."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, "I would think you would," he attempted a cough, "b-buy me dinner first, as you do normally. Preferably a warm—"

"Not like that, Sherlock please." He pushed the bridge of his nose.

"This t'ea made with your love, or, or Mrs. Hudson's?" He sneered.

"Shut up, will ya?" He slapped a hand on his forehead, seeing it too cold to tell of a possible fever. He looked down at him seeing a –of course I'm not warm you're an idiot- looking back, "I was serious about the clothes, drink that."

"You s-sure you're wearing p'nts?" Sherlock snaked a shaky finger around the bottom of John's jumper with sly hands and raised it to peek under.

John pulled it down, "Christ, lay off!" He backed up and felt blood rush to his face in embarrassment. Of course he was wearing pants! Why did no one believe that?

He didn't miss Sherlock's smirk.

"Drink, drink your damn tea, change your damn clothes. Alright then?" John fluttered back to his dresser for different clothes, he breathed out a held breath when he heard Sherlock sip his tea.

"ow, too hot John!"

He ignored him and took his nice clothes out to change in the bathroom.

"John you aren't going to leave me? Are you?"

He shook his head as he walked out, "Get changed."

"J-J'n, John?"

Watson continued back a moment later with different clothes, "Look, pants!"

Sherlock hadn't changed. He had his eyes closed.

John rushed over, "Sherlock?"

The man didn't move, "Sherlock, don't fall asleep yet. . ._I'll call an ambulance_."

"You promised you'd never do that!" Sherlock's eyes shot open in shock, he trembled from the cold and coughed.

"Not unless you were dying or I've given up being your doctor." He remembered.

"John I'm cold."

"Yes I know. Stand up, you gotta change out of those wet clothes. I'm serious about this."

Sherlock stood shakily and fumbled with his buttoned damp shirt, his fingers shook and he cursed and shook his hands out, "Impractical things to be, on a sh-shirt!" He shivered,

John crossed the room and pushed his ice cold hands out of the way, "Then why do you wear them so much. Move." He unbuttoned his shirt with steady hands, "don't get used to this," he noted the look Sherlock gave him.

"You're good at that. Your, h-hand tremor isn't-"

"Yes, thanks to your brother."

"What?" Sherlock looked betrayed, "What did he do? I-I'm the, the one who, _uh_" he shivered once John's warm hand slid across his chest to pull the shirt off, "uh . . ."

John smiled despite himself, "What did you do?"

"I can take it from here, thanks." Sherlock turned away from him suddenly, leaning on the bed after stumbling a little.

John blinked. What was that? What just happened between them. . .?

"Uh, right." He left for him to be alone.

He was back with more hot tea and a coffee for himself and some headache medicine in case it was needed. He knocked before entering.

"You didn't get me a shirt John,"

"I ran into Mrs. Hudson, no time. I'll get you one later, I'm late for work. How is the cold? No more shivers? You're not feeling numb are you?"

"You're leaving me?"

John turned on his phone, nodded. "You should take a warm bath, need me to start it?"

Sherlock had himself bundled deep in John's blankets, only his head showed, his hair looking matted and wild. "You can't leave me John? I need someone."

"Mrs. Hudson will be here, bless her soul." He stuffed the phone in his pocket, checked the time, 6:21am.

"Don't act like you don't know she's going out and won't be back until tomorrow."

John glanced at him, "She is?"

"Visiting her mom. You didn't know? Really?" He had a smug smile.

"You'll have her until she leaves then, you're fine. No hyperthermia or frost bite, you need rest after that bath and warmth and a meal, doctor's orders."

"You can't leave me like this!"

"Do you need me to ask Mycroft?"

Sherlock shrank back, "No!"

His phone buzzed a few times as the texts caught up to it, probably from last night.

He felt a little guilty about it not being on, "What happened last night? Hey, don't you have a key Sherlock?"

"In my coat pocket." He grumbled, "don't you think I knew that."

"How did you expect to get in, in case the door was locked?" He hoped for a second he wouldn't get a good answer for once in Sherlock's life he wasn't prepared. He was wrong.

"My usual way of getting in was compromised." He grumbled further, almost pouting.

"We never use that fire escape-"

"I know!" He spat, "I use the window in Mrs. Hudson's flat."

He made that sound like an okay thing to do. "There's no window on the ally side of the building!"

"John _please_." Sherlock felt like he was getting patronized.

"Well what window then . . .no. Oh hell no Sherlock you can't mean the little window above her sink? Christ, that's not appropriate. You could have given her a heart attack! Coming in through her window at night—!"

"I'm very discrete John. Stop your loud accusations, I've got a headache." He closed his eyes tight.

John threw him the pills that were in his pocket, "Oh here. Only two Sherlock. Only two!"

He got waved off. "Took you hell of a long time to hear me tapping on the glass. Sooner would have been ideal, it started snowing John. You know I hate the cold."

"You didn't bring your jacket!" He huffed out his frustration, seeing the man wince at him raising his voice. "Mrs. Hudson had a letter last night, I got it before I went off to bed and I didn't disturb her sleeping, I know now she wasn't and had gotten up to get it after she heard me closing the front door," he took his coat from the back of his door, "she thought it was you coming in so she locked it. I saw the letter gone when I got up this morning. She's never up this early."

"It was a letter from her mother, and you ran into her earlier, she was up."

John gave him a look; disbelieving Sherlock already knew that part of his explanation, "She said we woke her. I thought you overheard."

"I did." He said smugly.

John cursed at him inwardly, "You know, she had asked me just a week ago if I had been in her kitchen to get a glass, because one of them had been broken when she awoke." He straightened his jacket, "that was you wasn't it?"

"Why would you be down there for a glass, that's pointless."

"Sherlock our flat is a complete disaster; we hardly have any cups left! You can't act like you don't see it!'

"I don't."

"Oh god, okay. Goodbye, I should be leaving, I'm already late."

"You go in at eight normally." Sherlock muttered.

John huffed, "I wasn't supposed to today."

"Our flat is perfectly organized."

"I'm serious about calling Mycroft, he might be able to force you to clean—"

"Dull!"

"How did you even keep a clean room as a child?"

"I paid Mycroft to do it. As a matter of fact. . ."

John blinked, "What? Really?"

Sherlock tucked into the blanket further, "He needed more money than what our _father_ was giving us at the time."

"You gave him your allowance; to clean your room?" John noticed the strange tone on, 'Father.'

"Of course it was only to keep up appearances. And no, I had more money than I knew what to do with at the time."

"How old were you? You had a job?"

"Nine, and you could say job. I sold a great deal of opium and tobacco, along with rush and marijuana—"

"Sherlock! You didn't!"

"What's so surprising? John, I had good connections." He said innocently.

John waved his hands around, "You've been smoking since nine?"

"Oh no John, no. Of course not. I didn't know the appeal in half of what I sold; only what it did to the body on a chemical and biological way. Please pass me my tea."

John crossed the room and handed the in reach tea to him. He pretty much did whatever the man asked anyhow,"Your childhood must have been chaotic."

"Yes, quite so."

John shook his head, trying not to imagine it. He turned to leave. "When you have time please go back to your own bed,"

"You can't leave me John!"

"Yes I can, I do it almost every day."

"I need my doctor." He mumbled,

That made John fault his steps, "Sorry Sherlock."

He walked out without seeing the man's pleading eyes, knowing it was a rouse, he opened his phone to try and text Sally an apology.

There were some missed messages in his inbox.

.

RECEIVED: 12:37am

John I've solved it. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:12am

How dare you exterminate my findings without my permission. I'm not happy about the displays case either John. I know you broke it when you tripped on Freud. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:17am.

Wake up. Open the door I can't get in. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:17am.

Open the door John. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:18am.

Now. Open it now. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:22am.

Came up the fire escape, open your .

.

RECEIVED: 1:22am.

Now .SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:25am.

It's cold. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:27am.

It's snowing now. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 1:38am.

Don't throw out my eyeballs hidden in the toaster when you find me dead here. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 2:11am.

I've lost some feeling in my arms. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 3:31am.

I forgive you for the case John. SH.

.

RECEIVED: 3:38am.

John I've lost my patients with you. Open the damn window before I break it in! SH

.

RECEIVED: 4:00am.

Hey it's Sally, John don't worry about coming in early I'm fine here! See you at eight :)

.

RECEIVED: 4:12am.

Sorry. SH.

.

John stopped reading before he made it to the door. A heavy guilt nipping at him. _Had this been his fault?_

Oh hell.

.

SEND: 7:12am

Sorry Sally, I'm not coming in today, Sherlock needs me. J.

He hit send and got a text back rather quickly.

.

RECEIVED: 7:13am

Yes attend to your boyfriend John.

.

He sighed again and slumped back up the stairs.

"Sherlock, I'm going to run your bath n-"

His lanky figure was standing there close to the door, going through one of John's clothes drawer. "What are you doing?"

"You aren't leaving?" He sounded like he knew it would happen.

"No, Sally doesn't need me today,"

Sherlock glanced at him. "Hm."

He didn't know what that meant but he was so defeated on life he didn't care. "Put my socks back."

"No force behind that threat, you've gone soft. No John! We are heading out and I need extra socks!"

"Out?!"

"Yes! Outside!"

John grunted, "You're not well enough. Look, you're still shaky."

"I have extra socks John!" He pointed to the many layers of tube white socks on his feet. All John's socks.

He gave a hard look, "Where do you think we ought to go!"

"To my mothers."

"What ever for Sherlock?"

"We've been invited!" He turned with more socks in his hands to add to his feet, a beaming smile on his face.

No shirt. He still looked ill, with pale cheeks and circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, he looked sick.

John somehow realized he couldn't cope much more with this man's non-sense. No, but he felt he had to. Who else was there?

"No, not just yet." He tried to be stubborn, "Get a bloody shirt on. Eat something, and I'll think about it." John walked back down to try and scavenge something to eat in their rotten kitchen. He heard Sherlock at the door at the top of the stairs half way down,

"Doctor's orders!"

* * *

**Note-**

**When Sherlock mentions that John tripped on Freud, he's talking about a psycology book about Freud's theories. I like to think Sherlock gives his books names of the people or things they are about. ha.**

**Any other questions please ask away~**

**Annd, let's see how Sherlock's Bath time goes~~**


	3. Visitors Pass

Scraping flakes of dried bread off the counter was a quick fix to finding space. Not sanitary, per say, but this seemed the closest.

John looked at the rest of the kitchen with a sly sideways glance and a grimace that resembled Sherlock's natural resentment to Anderson. He couldn't squint enough to get the mess out of his peripheral vision, and his stomach was churning at the different smells escaping the area.

"What is that?" He would never admit the squeak that escaped his lips when he lifted a few dirty plates to reach the neon colored paper soaked underneath and a beetle, size of a walnut! He swore, dropped the plate as if on fire and backed up before it spotted him.

He heaved, "Oh lord."

Sherlock was heard bounding down the stairs, cutting into the kitchen like a bundled safe as kid scissors, knife. He stopped short when seeing John against the fridge, only holding a jar of marmalade. "Are you going to kill it, or just stand there like a frightened kit?"

Of course he would know it was a bug. John felt a little embarrassed, "Well at least I don't look like a stuffed marshmallow. You, you're supposed to wash up." He got defensive.

Sherlock noticed, "Oh, food analogy." He muttered with a scoff then looked innocent to the mess, taking a rag and swatting a bug away from the piles of dishes in the sink, "I don't need a bath John."

"You're right; you need a psychiatrist, and a good one." He turned the cap to the marmalade and dared a look inside. There was that look again.

"I wouldn't eat that."

John's posture stiffened and he pulled it as far away from himself as his arm would let it, "Why?"

"Used it yesterday morning." He turned to wiggle in his three shirts that happened to all be John's, then looked over with an eyebrow raised.

"On that severed head you were so worked up over?" John's eyes boggled out of his head, "I change my mind," he slammed the jar into the bin, "you need a miracle and a bundle of loony pills!"

Sherlock scratched under his collar, "Loony pills?" He almost sounded to consider them, then took back the look when meeting John's eyes. "No, wouldn't do me any good." He frowned and rubbed his fingers together.

John kicked papers out of his way and hesitated at the fridge, "Do I even want to open this?"

"Do you?" Sherlock leaned on the wall and sighed, rubbing his forehead. Obviously having that bad headache return full force.

"You clearly need some rest, Sherlock. Look at you."

"Me?" He looked down at himself with a frown, "I'm fine."

"I really doubt that on a normal day, let alone now." He checked his watch for the time, "if you want to see your mum, you will look better than that. Then a bum."

"Don't insult the lifestyle." He closed his eyes again in pain.

John rolled his eyes, "I'll insist on a bath one last time, you've been outside all night freezing and no amount of clothes will stop your shaking, I can see it from here." John ran the water over the dishes and drowned out Sherlock's long whine, "Don't make me turn into your nagging house wife because I'm about two twits away from it." He ground out, dropping other dishes in the sink to join, "shall I start the water or will you grow up for once."

Sherlock hadn't answered so he finally looked at him. Only he wasn't there. He turned off the water and leaned to look over the pile of trash on the counter, Sherlock had slung down on the wall to sit on the floor. John breathed in deeply, "I'm at my wits end here."

Sherlock waved him off with a deep frown and pained expression, "Shut up."

John turned to go get the bath started, "We will order takeout to eat... Again."

He let the water run as he checked the time again and then used the loo, continued back to his room without thinking about what the hell his flat mate was doing downstairs and made his bed. Which was soaked from the melted snow. He hardly bothered with it.

The tub was full enough with warm water and it looked inviting and relaxing, John longed for some peace. He got a few towels out of the cabinet and set one down on the toilets closed lid, he put another on the floor tile to prevent slipping, with Sherlock you never knew the man's unstable as he is smart. Then he pushed the curtain aside and set a candle that had been under the sink on top of it to give the lavender sent that John enjoyed whenever he bathed.

Whenever he had time to.

He almost lit it, but knew better than to have scented candles lite in any part of Sherlock's general sense. Which was everywhere.

You couldn't burp without him telling you what you had eaten. His smelling powers were intimidating.

Turning to get the devil, speak of him. He was standing in the doorway.

"Good, you're learning." His lips were tightly pursed, judging no doubt.

"Yes, well. Get in. I'll order something. Don't hesitate to yell for me."

"Why would I yell for you?"

John tried to push past him, Sherlock wasn't moving, "No reason." He sighed.

Sherlock's eyes shifted upward, "I vaguely remember that interaction before . . ."

"Get in the damn tub," he gestured, "your water will cool before you have time to strip from all those layers."

Sherlock straightened, "I don't accept this. This isn't acceptable."

"Get out of the way?"

"No, John this isn't right, it's not the time. I haven't the time."

"Take your clothes off will ya?"

Sherlock put a hand to his chest, "John! Your forceful tone has taken to a threat." He smirked suddenly, "a little desperate hm?"

John opted for shutting his lip entirely. He gave him his best glare. This man was getting on his last nerves. If Sherlock didn't still have trembling hands he would have left by now.

Sherlock saw John had given up on playing his stubborn game, "Are you going to stay for a show, or move out of my way John." He turned teasing. Almost a ridiculous expression landed on John's face. Of all the things to do, Sherlock was playing with him! At a time like this?

"I'll have you know, I wouldn't watch you undress even if you had the secret of life tattooed on your backside!" He shoved past him, nodding tightly, "Even if life hung in the balance, no-no I wouldn't see that as anything more of a personal hell. Which you occupy and call it life!"

He ranted all the way down the stairs.

Sherlock smiled, looking at his phone only to frown. He scowled actually, and then tossed it across he bathroom where it smacked the tile. He crossed his arms and willed away the headache and shivers. Which didn't work despite what he thought his brain could do. This bath was ruining his plans. He knelt down and splashed water, as if to hit it, across the opposite wall.

What a waste of his time.

-ooOOoo-

John's phone buzzed a few minutes later and he was lucky he had composed himself enough to look at who it was.

It was Mycroft's assistant; unfortunately he remembered her number from only one occasion:

'My boss needs you to answer the door.'

John frowned, when had the door been knocked at? He answered,

'I would gladly let him in, Sherlock's been harassing me. Could use an expert. J.'

'He isn't answering his phone. Boss needs him urgently.'

'Urgently? What's the matter? J.'

'Answer the door John.'

He set the paper down and stood to go to the door, just in time to run into Mrs. Hudson, who looked to be in a hurry.

"Oh dear, you look in a tizzy there love? Sorry I can't help with it I need to be off," she held a large purse to her side.

"To see your mother?" John guessed.

She smiled, "Yes, she's gotten sick again, I can't get her house keeper to properly care for her. You know she's so frail," she sighed and kept back her concern. John smiled at her, "She will be fine, I'm sure."

"Yes, well I won't be back tonight, do keep care of yourselves." She turned to leave, "Give Sherlock my love as always dear, I can't make time to say goodbye to him."

There was a distinct sound of something being dropped or hit upstairs as if in response.

"Of course," John said sweetly disregarding it, "I'll miss you, you know, you're the only sane thing in my life. Anything you need for your mother, do call."

She leaved after a swift hug, opening the door. John held it open and watched her protectively as she huddled into a small car, driven by a lovely lady who waved in John's direction. He wondered who she was but hardly had time to wave back before they were off. He watched them go and then looked around to lay eyes on a dark familiar car parked near.

Mycroft didn't delay to waltz out, new slick black cane in hand that matched a new attire. He wore a tie, patterned with miniature dots, passionate blue against his dark black tailor suite. His top hat looking new and shined, a blue matching bow along he side. He looked as if going to a ball.

His face however, didn't read elegant. He looked irritated and now John felt hell itself walking to him. Both Holmes in the house would be the death of him like this.

Mycroft whisked past him, cane out in front and tapping John's shoes as if to push him aside rudely. John moved despite himself.

"You look nice." He muttered, closing the door. Feeling small and pointless to start a conversation with it being obvious there wasn't going to be one.

Mycroft didn't answer, he went straight for the stairs and up it in a huff but elegant rush. He couldn't be stopped if not for another war.

Which was about to happen upstairs once the brothers got together.

What could Mycroft be so upset about now? What did Sherlock do? If it were a case, Mycroft was normally a little more tolerable and smiley to attempt to be conversational. It normally didn't work for Sherlock but John enjoyed his company if anything. It was better than Sherlock that's for sure,

He leaned up against the rails, but hardly had to strain to hear.

There was a loud splash, Sherlock sounded surprised when he claimed, "What-hey! What di—"

"You know what you did Sherlock. I mean really," Mycroft scoffed loudly, "Could you be less prudent?"

"Doubtful." Came Sherlock's voice coldly, there was another splash and a thud.

Mycroft didn't seem to make any counter noises, "It's been four years, you cannot have another excuse planned for me. Let's hear it." He was stern,

"I'm sick."

"_Oh please._" He drawled out with disgust.

"Look at me Mycroft I'm practically _dying_ here." Sherlock sounded innocent.

Mycroft did not in the least, "With what this time?" He paused, "Pneumonia, where you had only your last landlord to testify you being in bed two days as proof. Chicken pox poorly drawn on by a marker, perhaps?"

"Does it look like—"

"No I couldn't care Sherlock, stop bathing in your clothes and get ready. Do make haste we have been waiting since yesterday."

There was a long pause. John leaned in as if to hear, but couldn't make out any movement, until—

A splash and as reprise yelp most definitely from Mycroft, a slight swear at the end, "Oh really! _How immature_!"

"Get out."

There was a loud thunk and Sherlock's phone was seen hitting the wall, the cover shattering off. John figured it's been through much worse.

Mycroft seemed to steady himself, "Saw your landlady, Mrs. Hudson isn't it? Yes, she seemed in a hurry to visit someone, no doubt her mother, so you cannot have her—"

"Obviously to see her mother Mycroft. You saw the way she clutched her overstuffed handbag. And her lipstick and new hair—"

"Yes, yes do stop interrupting its most unbecoming. Now, as I was saying, she can't verify you being out of sorts now can she? You live with Dr. Watson, yes, but I don't see him giving you an excuse."

"Why don't you ask him, he's just at the end of the stairs."

John felt completely uncovered and slung back against the railings. He crossed his arms and huffed in a breath. These Holmes brothers are going to drive him to madness.

"You speak of obvious facts Sherlock, don't be hypocritical. Dr. Watson is next on my list of visits of course I—"

There was more splashing, "He will leave shortly to get the food."

"_Sherlock_." He scolded.

More water churning. Mycroft spoke again, "Get your head up here and listen to me, you cannot keep doing this."

There was a knock at the door that brought John attention away from the brothers upstairs, he fumbled with his wallet and opened the door to get the ordered Chinese. The man at the door smiled and handed him the bag, "Fancy seeing you here," the man said,

"Yes Henry, I know." He tried not to cringe at Sherlock being right, probably sitting smug in the bath above him. "Here," he handed a little over the amount and said goodbye. Henry thanked him for the change and then also thanked him that Sherlock didn't answer. John understood and shut the door, zipping his jacket after the cold air came bustling in again and he set the bag on the end table knowing he'd have to clean some dishes. Would Mycroft stay?

He made his way to the kitchen and paused at the stairs again,

"Unlikely." Mycroft answered an unheard question of sorts.

"Well John is back anyhow, so go talk to him. I don't want to talk about that anymore. Get out. Your making my head pound."

"Keep in mind what I said however. And you better show up this evening or we will come to you-" A splash and then another yelp, "Sherlock!"

John ducked into the kitchen as Mycroft was heard coming down the stairs. He was then present in the doorway as John washed a plate.

"You verify this?" He almost growled.

John saw the wet stain on the front of Mycroft's tailcoat and shirt. He almost smiled but decided against it, "Uh, yes. Yes I suppose I have to. He'd been locked out last night. Was outside my window when I woke this morning."

Mycroft frowned, "Really, Dr. Watson, my brother doesn't get locked out easily, and I do hope you aren't trying to lie to cover for him."

"I wouldn't lie about this. It was a total accident. Call me John please, just John is fine. No, no he was a complete mess this morning." He tucked another plate under the faucet, "I hardly got him in the tub."

"Yes, hardly." He scoffed, checking his watch, "I'll send a car around twelve, and you should be ready by then, correct." He didn't meet John's eyes.

Who was frowning back, "No, he needs to sleep."

"Good luck with that, Dr. Watson. Oh and do, clean this atrocious mess you have brewing before someone gets hurt." He looked disgusted at a towel he attempted to dry himself with.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"I suppose I could just take him forcefully in a few hours. But, of course that would cause a scene." He sighed, "however you seem to want to get rid of him I assure you he will be well taken care of."

"You mean," John said slowly, "You would be taking him . . .to go somewhere without me . . .?"

"Yes. Leave you to clean." He dropped the towel on the table, wiping his hand.

John's eyes shifted up as if thinking about it hard, a day without Sherlock sounded very stress relieving. Yes he could even take that long bath or watch anything he wanted without a baritone critic in his ear. No experiments to keep an eye on, or no one to nag at about the flat. Not even Mrs. Hudson would pop in on him.

John opened his mouth with a half-smile to say yes please just this once, but then—

"John's my date!"

Mycroft physically cringed at Sherlock's loud shout down the stairs from the bathroom. He rolled his eyes afterward and John groaned knowing now was too late.

"Did he have to say date?"

Mycroft nodded, "He seems to mean so. Mummy will be pleased," he looked him over, "She enjoys doctors." He turned to leave, practically clicking his heels.

John's jaw dropped, he hardly kept a clutch on the plate he held. "What? What does that—what do you mean?"

He was halfway out the door, "Around one then Watson, do be prepared. I am not a patient man."

Then he was out and John was completely struck.

Sherlock's date? Seriously his date or was it just something Sherlock said? He whipped his head to the ceiling with a glare and a curse, "Sherlock, what the hell are you up to?"

* * *

**Will we ever know?**


	4. The Bees John!

-ooOOoo-

John prepared some of the food while going through different ways to tell Sherlock he wasn't interested in being his date, in his mind. Trying to come up with a better reason than, he didn't need his mum thinking they were together, as everyone else seems to think. He took a small plate upstairs still deep in thought that he didn't seem to be prepared for what he saw. But, when has he ever been prepared? Of course he knocked before walking in the bathroom, but—

"Sherlock?"

He walked in on Sherlock leaning over the toilet, hands on either side looking intensely at it. He still wore John's clothes except they clung to him in such a manner that John knew he took a bath with them on. The clot.

"Did you throw up? Are you doing okay? I didn't think you would get sick like that?"

"Mycroft's tie has made me feel ill. I'm bound to be sick sooner or later." He kept staring.

John rolled his eyes, "Okay than maybe explain the clothes?" He tried to keep calm, "and then tell me about this date business."

Sherlock shook his head, "No time John. No time at all." He suddenly stood then squinted in his direction.

"You're going to get cold again, dripping wet like that." He watched him walk past him, almost tipping the food. John heaved another sigh as he followed him back into his room across the hall, "Why are you in my room again?"

"You want your clothes back." Sherlock stated, starting to claw his socks off like onion layers, slopping them on the wood floors. John set the food down then and picked them up as he took them off, "Why can't you be normal."

He was sorry he asked the second it came out. Sherlock retaliated, "Normal?" He reached a tone that suggested he somehow saw it coming, "What ever for? Is that what you really want? Me to prance around doing repetitive silly things like cleaning?" His voice got high, "Keep in mind how dull your life would get. Oh who knows how many people dead because I couldn't think outside the box like a normal person or stretch my IQ a little past mediocre to accustom a further accusation on all parts of life. No. No of course if rather sit my bum on a soft couch and think of nothing but what to eat next."

Sherlock grew impatient to the socks and started ripping the whole lot of them off, stretching them as much to have the water drip out. He growled and cursed his shirt as he tugged them over his head, all at once and they were so soggy and heavy he seemed to lose himself in them, "John? Ugh! People make me sick sometimes,"

John laughed, "You're a child." He laughed more, seeing Sherlock struggle to get the shirts over his head, ruffling his wet hair.

"Get it off—ah!"

"Oi, you're making it worse!" John followed him as his struggles caused Sherlock to flail over towered the middle of the room. His lanky frame no longer holding itself tightly and seeming a little panicked.

"Shut up, stop giggling!"

John only giggled harder, "_Sherlock_! Stop!" He grabbed a handful of the wet bundle and pulled hard, Sherlock tugged the other direction, not helping at all. They fumbled backward until Sherlock finally got it over his head and was so thrilled he lifted it with his arms in the air, John still clinging to it, was slightly lifted for a second. "Ahhh," Sherlock smirked, than looked down at John confused as he cursed and pushed back only to stumble into Sherlock's mass, pushing him onto the bed. John had toppled on top of him, arms catching him on either side of Sherlock's head; meanwhile the man under him had his arms still high up, practically pinned.

It was a suspicious placement of sorts.

Now John prayed no one saw that. No one saw this. "Uh . . ." John blurted out. Sherlock basically laughed, looking John in the eyes and taking a moment to smirk. Their faces very close to each other. . .

"What is wrong with you? _Really?"_ John scrambled off him, getting a flush face from the situation. He pulled his clothes down with a flustered manner and Sherlock continued to laugh as he lay on the bed.

"Oh shut it." John barked.

Sherlock sat up with a smile, "You are taking this date thing too seriously. I need someone to show off at my family gathering. I have no one more worthy than you."

John paused, "Really?"

His smirk fell, "Yes, don't make me—"

"You really thought I would buy that load of crap?"

Sherlock was taken back as John continued, "I mean, you don't consider me most days, but today you seem to really push me off. Then you say you can't go to this family meeting without me being your romantic partner?"

"Romantic only in a sense of—" he crossed his arms once interrupted once more.

"I will not stand for you taking advantage of me like this. I'm not here to be used by you. I should have been at work today but instead I'm stuck with you again. All you could do is say thank you for taking care of you—"

"Flat is a mess, I don't think you are up to par on the cleaning aspect."

"Damn, there you have my point exactly." John flustered.

"You're so sensitive." Sherlock quipped, crossing his arms, "You don't have any better plans."

"You assume wrong. Why would I possibly want to go?"

"You're a sentimental kind of person John. I'm really getting tired of this conversation. Let's talk about something else." He wined, "how's Sally?"

"I'm about to clot you Sherlock! Get dressed in your own damn room for once today," John pointed for him to leave. Sherlock left without much fuss or expression. He had to of known these buttons of John's that when pressed set off his temper. Why couldn't he understand those limits? This is what frustrated John. That and it now seemed the whole situation of him being locked out was a big part of his plan to not see his family. By the way Mycroft spoke to him earlier; he has tried a lot of excuses in the past.

Sherlock always had some hidden agenda. Always something that you couldn't keep up with. What was it this time?

"You forgot your food!" He shouted, sitting on the edge of his bed to avoid the other damp outline of Sherlock from earlier. He rubbed his head and sighed out his frustration.

There were footsteps running past his door, he looked up.

Sherlock flew past and before John could warn him about the no shirt and soaking pants thing, he was running back, with his phone that had been crashed against the wall. He had it pressed close to his face. He shouted from the living area once he reached it, "The bees John!"

What could he be blabbering about? "Put a shirt on!"

"The brother harvested it!" He was up the stairs again, "Clara wasn't just unable to make the tube in time, she was allergic to bees John!"

John recalled the case they had earlier in the week, a women named Clara Bellone had missed her appointment and her husband found her dead swollen body in a stream near the station. The swelling looked to be water based, but now Sherlock was claiming an allergic reaction to bees. That explained the red marks on her hands.

"Bees are clever things John! We should invest. . ," He leaned on the wall frame looking serious.

"What? No. Go get dressed properly and shut your eyes for an hour or so I will not be having you fainting from exhaustion at your mothers." He felt some sort of calm take over from Sherlock's normal sense of ridiculous brilliancy.

He pouted, then looked down at himself as if just realizing his soaked pants and bare chest and feet, "Oh . . ."

"Now please, Sherlock, you have about two hours to sleep, even just a little."

"Stop fussing; don't tell me you're wearing _that_ to the party."

"This?" John looked down at himself, just a grey jumper and jeans, what was so wrong, "Is it a fancy party of sorts?"

"My aunt is remarrying _again_ I gander." Sherlock looked disgusted and twirled on his heel and went back down the stairs.

"Food, Sherlock! Eat this!" He stood to change into something with more class. Now Mycroft's attire made sense, "That's nice about his aunt," he muttered while going through clothes.

There was a crash downstairs, "You better not have feinted!" He yelled down. How many times had he yelled at Sherlock this morning? It wasn't even twelve yet! Must be a bloody record. Where was he getting so much of that energy? He should be exhausted and a shivering mess like when he was dragged from outside, John pondered his skills of faking._ Could he have faked this?_

_All of it? Just to be late for the family party? To have an excuse? _John stared at the plaid buttoned shirt in his hands.

* * *

**-Sorry for any grammar errors or such, I've been writing these on my ipad/That and sorry this one is so short. **

**Thankyou for reading~ More to come~~**


	5. Repetitive

**Welcome to the mind of Sherlock. Whenever there's an X, the point of view changes. This is mostly John's story, but who doesn't want to hear what's going on in his crazy mind?**

* * *

**-X-**

Cold. Yes, obviously still cold. Freezing. He could deal with it, push it out of his intermediate thoughts, but the shivers and the heavy eye lids were distracting. He contemplated taking those Ridline pills stuffed behind his dresser, maybe then he could bloody concentrate further. He had to admit to not contemplating and predicting Mrs. Hudson having her window lock changed. He wasn't supposed to be out-side all night for real. Sherlock frowned at his own mental downfall. When did he ever make such a miscalculation? Now his body was lacking behind his brain function. He hated the cold.

God knows he was slow on that last case. He turned to cursing at himself for thinking of a higher power, illogical. When did he become this slow? Was it the extra sugar in his warm tea that morning that John obviously thought he was being nice about-which having sugar cannot help in becoming warmer in the least—No. He thought John knew better as a doctor. No most indiscreetly mundane and past amusing annoying to a point of hair pulling, _brother._

His visit was pointless. Mycroft had warned him of his plan that was so obvious wasn't his but somehow implied by his morals, earlier today. Sherlock was a little annoyed he waiting until John wasn't ease-dropping to say it. It did involve him directly and Mycroft had to of planned on telling him sooner or later-_ah,_ no he wanted the right moment where John couldn't escape after being told. Sherlock felt a slight, very slight, appreciation for that.

And, of course he knew of the party starting yesterday despite his implying words to John. Most of all, he had known about Mrs. Hudson's overnight trip to her sick mother before the lady herself did! As his observations mostly went. This was somehow linked to Mycroft, he felt it below him to injure his land lady's mom just to rise the suspicious excuses Sherlock came up with every year. No he just didn't put it past him to fake the whole event.

Anyone with eyes could tell she was a worried mess and her driver held a biological resemblance to her late husband. That suggested family problems. Ordinary everyday purse turned into an overnight bag said emergency and new lipstick said her appearance was more thought out as if going to impress. The in-laws, Sherlock deduced.

There was the cold again, present in the back of his mind, trying to push forward. He willed it back again. Of course, after changing to regular clothes he had felt, in the least, better. To know his mom wouldn't approve of whatever he wore, he knew her favorite color to be pink and dark blue buttoned silk was the closest in his closet. She wouldn't be impressed either way. However, his unresponsive eyelids kept demanding to be shut for more than a few moments. This was getting repetitive.

What about John? Yes. John was upstairs still fussing about Sherlock's latest outburst. He had merely wanted to harvest bees; honey was welcome in any aspect. He could breed them; it's not like he didn't know how to do that. He could do that. Though, John disliked them.

He had sent a message to Lastrade saying nothing more than Bees. John would be texted to further explain he predicted. Now he could move on.

Sherlock frowned from where he was sprawled on his chair, surrounded by paper stacks and books piled high enough he couldn't see the kitchen, his foot came out to topple the tower over to see John there looking back at him.

_Oh, he must have asked something._ Sherlock also took note he didn't notice he had come down stairs. He looked him over.

Posture straight but relaxed, said it wasn't a serious matter, however there was still a trace of a frown on his lips that was obvious to point out his lingering frustration.. Black, grey, and white plaid? John how _repulsive._

John's eyes were unreadable, that could possibly say something. However he knew it said he just asked a question that looked for a yes or no answer. Sherlock said softly, "Yes I suppose."

"You suppose?" John mimicked lamely, "Your brother expects you to be ready, Sherlock you hardly look it. Do you know what time it is?"

Calm eyes hidden with exhaustion met John's and Sherlock breathed out, "Of course. We are an hour ahead of schedule."

"Who's schedule? Yours?"

He kept his thoughts on track by counting the music notes on the sheet in front of him, head hung upside down he could read it just fine, however John kept getting him off track on the scale. "We are both on my brother's time I fear. . ." He tried to contort his lanky figure over the armchair further, having already been sitting on it sideways with his curly head flopped over the arm rest. His hand fidgeted as an excuse for a shiver. His eyes instinctively closed. Dull.

"You have about an hour to sleep, get on it."

"No comment."

Sherlock didn't have to open his eyes to see how John had moved forward closer to him, taking his phone out by the sound of it. There must be a threat coming.

"I cannot handle both you in this flat again, I'm about ready to take his offer in forcing you to go without me."

Taking desperate measures to insure Sherlock is asleep? John must really be at his wits end this evening. It wasn't his fault in the least. John just couldn't keep up fast enough for Sherlock to try and attempt to slow down. That bath situation had been horrid enough—_Oh John was still talking?_

"—Better be ready. You will have to come back to half the flat thrown in the bin."

"A meaningless threat," he sighed and forced his eyes open, his hands unraveling from crossed arms to grip the arm chair as he sat up straight, his legs swung over. His eyes scanned the room in slight calculation of the living area.

Left side of the book clutter was psychology, where John had tripped over it and broke the glass case. Which still remained on the couch with three of Sherlocks pillows from his attempt at fixing the itchy feathers poking out, and that accompanied with the tape and bottles of kids glue. He was still missing something there. The couch itself turned sideways when it got in his way of making it to the restroom once upon a few days ago when Sherlock had spilled creditable and uncontainable liquid toxins on his hands, and part of the rug, (neatly concealed by the flipped chair). He had to rush to wash it off. Of course the sink in the kitchen was occupied by its own ecosystem. His eyes closed on their own accord again once he saw nothing interesting.

No. He wouldn't care for Mycroft to visit again, but it was unlikely of the chances he would come inside. Unless—wait! John not go? That wasn't right. "You're my date John I cannot show up without you."

"I'm refusing your offer there. But—Wait, so you're willing to go?"

Was that hope in his voice? "Do I have to?" Why was John sounding hopeful? He didn't want to go?

"Yes I assume so." John had put his phone away it sounded. Now the way he shifted suggested he was having pain in his arm, not the one shot however. Must have been the arm he slipped into his bullet case. Minor problem. Sherlock's body threatened to sleep, so he opened his eyes. He didn't blame John for not wanting to go.

John was there. Looking optimistic as always, he was tugging a coat on. A simple action to suggest he was pushing Sherlock to be ready now.

"I haven't made the correct preparations to leave."

John didn't answer that. It almost annoyed him. He stood with what energy he could muster, which looked normal to anyone watching. Then stepped over the items on the floor to get to his room, John was saying something that was getting deleted as said.

_Oh how he dreaded family._

**-X-**

Keep in mind John has tried to be patient all day. Yes. _That was patients._ He had been so worried for Sherlock in the morning, so much so that it somehow transferred to anger. How that happened he wasn't sure.

This he was though, Sherlock was avoiding him. Pouting about going.

He only prayed he was sleeping in there, locked in his room. He finished the takeout and cleaned Sherlock's hardly touched plate on the end table. _How was he not hungry? What is so wrong with eating, they weren't on a case!_ He looked at his watch and almost panicked. Mycroft wasn't exactly scary, but his methods could be. He was powerful and irritated enough to accomplish what he wanted. Which was John and Sherlock at the party. He gave another disgusted look at the state of the kitchen.

Already almost 1:00, John now fumbled to get his phone out, maybe he could stall, and maybe he could get Mycroft to wait another hour?

Who did he think he was? This was the British government.

'I think Sherlock's sleeping for a change, can I request another hour? -J.'

'No.' Texted Mycroft's assistant.

John knew as much. His phone buzzed again, 'Cars outside. Get in.'

'I still have a few more minutes. -J.'

'You should have changed your shirt, compliment them with boots it may snow again.'

John assumed she really didn't care. _How did she know about what he was wearing?_ John looked around the room suspiciously, even if it was pointless. You could hide a million cameras in this mess.

He went to Sherlock's door and heard silence. He hated to wake him.

He knocked very softly. Oh so softly.

Then opened the door. Quietly, oh so very quietly.

It was dark? Why so dark? "Sher-Sherlock?" He opted for quieter than a whisper. Where was the damn light switch? _Oh!_

It didn't work.

He frowned feeling really uneasy now. There were sheets covering the window, slight sunlight trying to seep through. Looking almost dim florescent. It's as if his body knew this man was dangerous on a different level. He waved his hands in front of him, only seeing up to the edge of the bed from the dim light cast from the living space. Sherlock usually kept his room rather clean; of course the man didn't really care for anyone else's space but his. He even brought clutter in John's room sometimes. That was, not-good.

At least it wasn't bloody animal parts. . . Anymore.

John felt the sheets. Cold but he squinted and might even see a lump of blankets. He tried again, "Sherlock, the car is here."

The lump didn't move.

He cautiously put his hand out and felt it, cold and soft and . . .squishy?

This wasn't Sherlock.

Then his voice came through the darkness, "I don't wana go John."

"Get ready the cars here." He said again, trying to see him. He knew the man was sulking. "Why are you in the dark like this? You didn't sleep." He sighed.

Sherlock's voice drawled out and he slumped into the light, "Don't let Mycroft intimidate you, tell him to bug off."

"Come on, we have to go. It'll be fine, just a few hours of family visiting and we will eat, I can say you didn't sleep and you can go home earlier than normal, huh? How's that?" He took hold of Sherlock and pushed him gently back into the light.

"No, that never works." Sherlock shrugged John's guiding hand off his back rudely, "Mummy always insists on staying the night. She's so persistent," he paused and stopped moving for a second, "and annoying."

"Sherlock! Really? It'll be over before you know it."

"Nothing ever is John that's a lie!" He was getting his coat on nonetheless, frowning and pouting the best he could, and slumping into his shoes. He flipped his collar up and waved John off when he was handed a hat for the cold weather. He just grabbed his scarf with a groan, "This is going to set me back mentally and physically." He paused again before opening the door, "I think I may have left the—"

"Open the damn door Sherlock, go!" He shoved him and got another groan and protest.

It was cold, very very cold and John pulled his greet jacket around himself as they headed to the car. Sherlock shivered violently and was not pleased with it, yet had continued to plea with John to stop advancing.

"John I'm serious there's a severely grotesque thing, yes it's been there for months, I'm aware we should—John you're not listening. What about another case John? Text-Text Lestrade!"

Oh yes this was going to be a disaster.

* * *

**Yes. Suppose it will be, poor John. He doesn't even have a clue as to what Mycroft is planning and to what's ahead/ Sherlock's family may just be as eccentric as himself.**


	6. Gay For My Brother

"I'm finding myself impressed Dr. Watson."

"Just John please, it's hardly deserved." He glanced over at Sherlock sulking so hard in the corner that it could have killed. Eyes out the window with a high collar and a less than pretentious frown, he sat as shrunken in on himself as he could fit in the car.

"Must have been a difficult task to get Sherlock here however, he looks a little worse for wear. I speak from experience when I say it is hard to keep on time with him."

John was between them, and he could practically feel Sherlock getting ready to fight with him, so he changed the subject quickly, "Weathers atrocious this time of year." He attempted at some kind of small talk.

"No I don't like that." Mycroft said back.

John assumed he wasn't talking about the weather but of his attempt,"Oh, well—"

"Shut up." Sherlock was heard gritting out.

John shut up with an awkward silence.

Mycroft just scoffed, "Do be on good behavior, I wouldn't want mummy to see you as such."

There wasn't an answer but John swore he saw him stiff up, Mycroft continued, "After four years you would think to be better."

"Nine years." Sherlock muttered.

"Pardon?"

John didn't like being in between, "Oh he's just being an arse—"

"Don't act so pompous, you've always known I didn't show up for the barbecue." Sherlock grumbled in his general direction.

"Sherlock." He sighed back.

"Didn't know?" He finally looked up, "Interesting,"

John's turn to sigh.

The rest of the car ride was ridiculous sibling rivalry that John really tried, he really did, to ignore. They were so immature at points of Sherlock even scolded Mycroft on his grades in high school and how it was his fault the family goldfish died. Mycroft retaliated with it being Sherlock's homemade fish food that poisoned it. Sherlock argued he was three.

They arrived into a busy bustling part of London, outside of the cities limits. The houses were getting bigger and more expensive.

He could have guessed the Holmes family was loaded.

Mycroft hit his cane on the back of the passenger seat where Anthia, or whatever her name was this day, sat with her eyes glued to her blackberry.

"Here," he was telling the driver to turn into a long dirt path. The car turned on cue and the dark gloomy cloud beside John started fidgeting, his fingers drumming on his crossed arm and leg bouncing. Sherlock was nervous? John let his lips curl into a smile.

He turned his attention to the house they were headed to, not as big as a castle but definitely an estate of some sort. It looked to have at least ten spare rooms, the yard was decorated in bare skeleton trees lining the pathway to the front door, colorful leaves upon the ground that looked so perfectly in tune with nature it could have been on a post card. The stone was a light grey with darker undertones and various patterns. Yes, maybe it could be bigger in the back or something.

"Lovely home." He said to no one in particular.

Mycroft smiled, "Yes, was mine once I moved out, now I passed it to our dearest mother after father passed."

John looked at him to say he was sorry about their late father, but Mycroft looked as if forcing himself to appear put together. Beside him, Sherlock stopped fidgeting. John didn't say what he wanted to because of the sudden tense atmosphere, "This was your _first _house Mycroft?"

"Yes, of course."

"Still traces of those tacky lawn ornaments you used to enjoy cluttering your yard." Sherlock said still facing the other direction.

Mycroft couldn't counter due to the car finally stopping, John suddenly found himself getting excited and nervous to meet the family. If his aunt was getting married, most likely cousins would be present. He wondered if they had a big intermediate family. It's even possible they had a sister or something, John knew nothing about Sherlock's past.

The car stopped a small walk to the front porch, the path got too narrow. Sherlock was the last to slump out before it drove away, Anthia had made it clear that walking and texting was something she could do. She was ahead of the group. John smiled when he thought she might look up before they started walking, she looked stunning this evening.

The wind was chilly and strong at some points enough to make John tumble out of a straight military walk. Mycroft was having no difficulty or showing signs of being cold beside him. John glanced back at Sherlock who lagged behind them with his coat tucked in tightly and a scowl as he looked everywhere but their destination. He was falling behind quite a lot.

No, actually John and Mycroft were speeding up. John hadn't noticed. The house was still a little ways away. Mycroft spoke fast and clear.

"Now, John do make sure you are aware of some things."

"Hmm yes? What's that?" John squinted from the wind.

The brother walked closer, lowering his voice. "Do not be alarmed. I have informed Mummy of you and Sherlock."

"Of our what?" He asked innocently.

Mycroft sighed out, "Of your _relationship."_

John felt the need to stop walking if not for the thought of a nice warm house ahead. And drinks. Lots of alcoholic drinks at parties. "What exactly do you mean?"

"You are both quite literally, each other's date."

"Hah, Mycroft that's not funny."

The look he got made John freeze deeper than just the skin. He sucked in a breath, "You, you told her me and Sherlock, or—er. Sherlock and I are—that is to say you said." He squeaked a little, then hugged himself, "you said we are—"

"Involved." Mycroft finished impatiently.

His face would have turned red if not already from the cold, "Mycroft . . .why? Whatever for?"

"Do not panic. You won't be asked to prove it. I simply—"

"_Simple!?"_

"Calm yourself please Dr. Watson. Surely this isn't as big of a deal as you think. Two days is all you will have. I simply need mummy to think Sherlock has a caretaker."

"Isn't that what you could say Mrs. Hudson does? I don't understand what's going on. You did this purposefully? Does Sherlock know?"

"Doctor, of course he's aware. Now I've made you aware. Go join my brother so he may escort you inside." Mycroft tucked his coat in and held on to his top hat while further picking up a pace to meet with his PA on the trail.

John stopped walking in bewilderment. In complete distrust. What good was Mycroft doing in telling his mum that of all things? No one would believe they were a bloody couple! No one could possibly expect—_Oh no he didn't want to play this time. This was getting to a level he was uncomfortable with entirely._

"I suggest we just endure it for now. My brother has been planning this for a while I'm sure." Sherlock's voice came beside him now, he caught up to him. He knew what they had just discussed.

John attempted to move his feet, Sherlock had stopped beside him and spoke again, "It couldn't have been that big of a shock John, really. We should keep moving regardless."

He wasn't _serious_? He couldn't be serious about this plan. John blurted out, "Why?"

"I suspect you ask of his plan not why I think you cannot handle it—"

"I can handle it!" John seethed through chattered teeth,

Sherlock looked stern, "Mycroft _always_ interferes and I won't allow him to get away with this. There will be retaliation I assure you." He paused with a glare, "he wants mummy to think I've gotten over my apparent irrational fear of commitment and relationships. At least it would seem plausible due to my frequent lack of interest in girls at a young age."

He was suggesting he thought it okay to be gay with him? _What!_ Sherlock has lost it this time. No way, "No way."

"I just didn't see the appeal of—"

"No, I won't do this Sherlock it's mad."

"I agree. But we will anyhow."

"What does that say to your brother? That says he can meddle with your life, and mine! And get away with it." He started walking again, with new vigorous strides.

Sherlock kept up effortlessly, "John my mum doesn't approve of me or what I do, if she approves of you, and she likes doctors. I may just win this."

"Win? Win her approval? Of us?" John groaned, "There's no us, so there's no winning Sherlock,"

He got a firm look, "I will win John, and it counts nonetheless."

"Win what?"

"Everything." Sherlock grinned suddenly.

They were catching up now, "This is about your brother! Sherlock this is about some sibling rivalry?" He accused.

Sherlock didn't really have to answer. John knew this is what it was about. But his supposed new partner turned serious, "John I need to let you know something else."

"What now?"

"There's a big side of my family that despise me."

"How come? You live with them at some point?"

"Humor isn't welcome here John." Sherlock grunted, "No, no time to explain, just know it has to do with something in my past they, uh, blame me for. Just don't defend me or say anything or do anything stupid."

"I—"

"More than your normal stupid of course." Sherlock smiled.

John let out a lame fake laugh and now they were all piled onto the porch, freezing and sniffling. Mycroft gave John and Sherlock a glance over, narrowing his eyes before ringing the doorbell.

They had to wait a few short minutes before the dark wooden door decorated in an autumn reef was opened elegantly. And out came the noise and bustle of a party.

It was simply a server who answered, inviting them in and grinning madly at Mycroft and Anthia who entered first, "Mycroft! And your lovely assistant has joined you this time; I am very pleased to see you both again!" He wore a simple uniformed black blazer and white bow tie; he was naturally tan and sounded American. His smile was very genuine. "I kept a glass of red wine out for you I know how you dislike the bubbles." Mycroft smiled back and thanked him, moving to another man who had caught his attention nearby. The boy kept smiling.

Until Sherlock came through, it threatened to fall, "Oh, _oh Sherlock_, it's been a very _very_ long time indeed. I uh, I'm glad you are here."

Sherlock looked pained when he entered, but stopped when being greeted, he didn't look at the man, "Brendon. Gotten yourself recently married to a lovely receptionist to cover your infamous romantic interest in my brother, no doubt. Working for Mycroft even through marital statuses? Feel bad for the children—or I should say child; girl."

The American greeter, Brendon's smile withered again, "Oh yes, I have a baby girl, yes." His voice broke.

"Keep her close I'm sure she's here getting into sweets, she is diabetic? I noticed the glances at your watches alarms. Set specific times apart for insulin injections, you look too nervous for it to be your own diabetic problem. She inherited it from her mother's side?" He had continued.

Brendon's smile had disappeared, "Yes. I, I need to check her soon."

"Do keep your sex life to yourself I do not like you screaming it at me."

"Sir, I—I did not mention—" Brendon got flustered very quickly.

Mycroft had stopped chatting to someone close by to interject, "Sherlock introduce your _date_ here." Emphasis on date. John noticed.

"ThisismypartnerJohn." Sherlock snipped out. He still hadn't looked at the man.

John got out of the cold thankfully and took his jacket off and handed it to Brendon as the poor thing was closing the door with shaky hands, "Yes, I'm John Watson, it's very nice to meet you. You work here?"

Sherlock was heard scoffing behind him, "_Obvious_ John."

Brendon looked at him with almost pity, he shook his hand regardless. John kept a smile.

"Yes I do work here. Um, you are partners? Very happy for you two." He didn't sound happy. Now he definitely sounded full of pity. John didn't blame him after that ordeal. He turned a little desperate as he said, "Well, yes. Our hostess will be glad to see you both, yes, both of you." He laughed nervously, eyes glancing at his watch, "She's in the main hall I believe."

Mycroft said thank you and guided Anthia with him ahead of Sherlock and John who followed reluctantly through the crowded hallway.

So many faces that didn't seem to notice Mycroft, but the second Sherlock's curly hair had been seen in their peripherals, most of the nicely dressed people frowned. Sherlock frowned back and tightened his coat he had refused to give to a server. John hoped he wasn't going to get sick with all the exposure to the cold.

"Don't believe what they tell you John. Any of them." He had muttered beside him.

John smiled at a couple who smiled back, glasses of wine in their hands he was planning to adventure to get some, and very soon. "Believe what?"

"Anything. Even my mother isn't safe to trust."

"Is she going to tell me embarrassing stories from when you were little?" John smirked at seeing the horrified expression cross his friends—scratch that,_ partners_ face. "Do you think if I asked to see the baby pictures?"

"John!" He growled as a warning. They turned a corner swiftly, the wallpaper changed to warm neutral colors.

"I'm joking, just having a bit of fun. I'm sure she would let me see them regardless because we are now together don't you think?"

"Stop that," Sherlock practically pleaded.

John finally felt some stress release as he laughed. Although he had to talk to Sherlock soon about this relationship thing soon. He couldn't stop thinking about it and honestly needed to talk further on the subject. When should he do that? Now?

They were headed to a big crowded oval room at the back of the house, glass pan windows from floor to very high ceilings. John noting they could fit an airplane in here. That and the house had definitely been smaller than most estates. The light shining through the stain glass purple and red windows were reflecting the colors around the room to the people occupying it. It was gorgeous to say the least.

Everyone so elegantly dressed, white flowers and petals on every sitting table, complimented with candles and bowls of miscellaneous candies and sweets. People laughing and gathering in small groups to chat on the hardwood floors, noises of clinking glasses and old time stories. John kind of missed his own family when seeing this. All this atmosphere. He stopped trying to mention the relationship thing, seeing as he was completely distracted now.

There was a woman, surrounded by more people than most, no wine glass just a familiar genuine smile on her lips. She must be the mum.

"That her then Sherlock?"

Sherlock was looking up at the ceilings, "Yes."

"You didn't look at who I was—"

"John, your deducing skills are mediocre _enough_ to spot a host of a party." Now he was looking down on him with that pained expression, tightening in on himself uncomfortably when they passed groups of people.

John got a better look at her from across the room, her dark brown hair pulled up in a tight bun with pearl pins sticking out neatly. They matched her off white cream colored dress, neat and sophisticated with a purple cardigan thrown over her slim shoulders. Thin and tall like her younger son, but held a resemblance to Mycroft's eyes. She looked like an upperclassmen, but smiled like she cared about everyone and everything. He was about to ask what her name was, when he was suddenly destructed by a mop of curls ahead of him turning a different corner.

"Sherlock where are you going? We are to greet your mother!"

He followed on his tail as they ducked into another hallway, "Going to the kitchen John, hungry," Sherlock had said.

"Really?" John was surprised, then apologized to someone he swiftly passed; they watched him walk away with a weird look. "Sherlock, there's food in the main room, that's where you get it."

"Exactly, that's where everyone is." Sherlock went under a server's tray instead of waiting for him to pass; the man yelped in surprise and nervously tucked the tray full of food close to him as John passed close behind. Sherlock continued to take strange ways of passing people, tapping them on shoulders so they turned the wrong way and had no possible chance to see him rush past. They thought John did it most the time, he apologized more.

They finally came into the kitchen and John could smell every type of sweet, sour, and spicy fumes around in the air.

"This way." Sherlock passed burning stoves and rushing caterers. They didn't seem to recognize him as the door man had. They must have been hired specifically for the party. John stopped when smelling a mouthwatering soup stewing near him, he smelled it further. He had to have some of that before he left. He turned to keep following, new questions to ask.

Sherlock wasn't anywhere near him.

John flicked his eyes over the bustling people in white looking for a dark coat and his curly head above the crowd. No one resembled him.

He was bumped into by someone and it brought him out of a little panic, he had no idea where else he would go or look besides back in the main room, "Sherlock?" He checked under a silver table cloth, nothing. He passed the shelves full of food and thought he would just keep moving around the kitchen until he found him. More likely Sherlock would find him, right? He wouldn't leave him . . .

"Come on." Sherlock tugged at his sleeve. John was pulled into a cold, very cold atmosphere suddenly and he yelped out a surprise, "Sherlock!"

They were in the bloody freezer! "_Sherlock!"_ He scolded again, "What are we _doing_ in here? Are you losing it?" He turned to grab the handle and leave, Sherlock blocked the exit,

"John we just need to stay here for a short while, no need to get snippy. You wanted to talk in private didn't you?"

"Don't try and appeal this to me, uh, it's freezing."

"Shouldn't have taken your coat off." Sherlock muttered. He knew he was on thin ice here.

"No, no this not okay, you can't hide from everyone in here. Get out. Now."

"We must talk John, no one can know of Mycroft's plan. I know you want to discuss details. Details John!"

"Sherlock this is childish, stop."

Sherlock turned serious and stepped closer, looking down at him with narrow eyes, "John . . ."

"What—what? What are you doing?" He attempted to keep his ground but Sherlock was very close to him. He could hear his own heart doing a flutter in his chest, he willed it to stop. Sherlock could hear it.

"Excellent John. Brilliant."

"What is? What bloody is? Why are you so. . . So close?"

He backed up finally, John breathed again, "Yes, your attention to detail is quite impressive here John, for someone who didn't like the plan you are going along with it rather brilliantly. I suspect Mycroft's gotten away by now to send someone to look for me, although he knows I cannot leave my usual way."

"What are you blabbing about?" John stuttered out, "and I'm very against this plan Sherlock, it was you who—"

"Your pupils dilated John. How did you control them like that? How were you able to accomplish it? Am I doing it now?" He leaned in and his eyes got wide. There was no dilatation.

John sucked in a breath and looked away, "I—I didn't know I had. Well of course I—I . . ."

"You have to look at me to see if I can do this John." Sherlock pouted, "It's all in the details."

"Of course it was intentional dammit! Sherlock this is ridiculous."

He straightened, "Ridiculously brilliant, oh I must give Mycroft some credit for thinking of it. Although it was his idea in the first place . . . Hmm. He must have something else planned to win this. I must ask him."

"You still seem a little off, you need sleep ya know?" John attempted a subject change, he rubbed his cold arms.

"Don't change the subject now. Are you uncomfortable?" He eyed him over which made John squirm a tad, "You are."

John sighed, "Can we get on with this party, I wish to meet your mother Sherlock."

"There will be no hand holding, no kissing, no cuddling. . . No. _Touching_," he breathed back, "nothing different, nothing has to change we will be fine."

"We? You said you were fine with it." John chose to ignore the way Sherlock said, touching.

"I don't do relationships John. However, just mentioning to my mother of our involvement is enough to impress her. Nothing more should be required. No I don't think we need to discuss further, I suspect Mycroft's helper will go so far as to ask people where I am. We should leave." He finally maneuvered his way out the freezer when someone opened it at a convenient time. The short caterer gave a very odd look to both of them lurking in his freezer. John winced and apologized for no apparent reason, mostly of embarrassment. He followed Sherlock out with red cheeks. Sherlock is on some sort of roller-coaster of bad intentions here and John was really finding it hard to keep up. Whatever was going through his head, he was afraid of the outcome. Mycroft too. They were both insane and so hopefully their mother was a lot more tolerable.

* * *

**He's just hoping John can keep up. Let's hope he can.**

**-I'm jealous of Mycroft's former home. **

**Thanks for lovely reviews~ **


	7. Sibling Feud

**Really wish i could type faster-My thoughts are racing too far ahead of my work. This is a very long chapter I enjoyed it :3 Hope you do**

* * *

The ballroom held the crowd better the second time around, John straightened his shirt and got himself together on account of new insight to Sherlock's mother. He ought to be proper, hadn't he? She was a little intimidating.

Mycroft was missing his messenger girl as he stood near the windows with Mrs. Holmes. He had a serious mannerism with proper demeanor as he always has about him, although there was a new sort of confidence in talking to one's mother you find in any man. His hands clasped to his cane that supported his weightless stance, he smiled sweetly at her as if she gave him a compliment. John could see his eyes divert swiftly over the room of faces for one in particular. His eyes narrowed when he found Sherlock striding to them.

John noticed he took his phone out and sent a very quick text, almost unnoticeable fast. Then smiled as they came upon the two of them, he turned his mother smoothly at the soft of her back. Her eyes darted to Sherlock, with a warm but stern recognition. John noticed there was no smile. He braced for it as it came.

She looked at John accordingly, a strong look over as if how Sherlock has deduced many times before. Her eyes flicked between them and finally they were within conversational distance.

"How nice of you to join us." Mycroft practically purred.

"How nice of you to call off the search party." Sherlock muttered back. John smiled warmly as he elbowed him.

"Sherlock," his mother's voice was very motherly with care. It was an illusion, therefore she turned it off quickly when saying, "Your hair has grown too long son, and you need a proper trim. No need for it to be so unkept."

John was a little shocked by that being the first thing in nine years she says to him. He was more appalled when Sherlock answered, "Kept it long just to nag you of course."

Mycroft laughed as if a bad joke between wannabe friends, "Oh yes you always do, don't you."

John was quickly becoming a fourth wheel.

She spoke again, proving John's theory by not looking at him, "Sherlock, how atrocious is this coat you are wearing to your dear aunt Carol's wedding party. This is unacceptable; we must get you different attire." She scolded him, reaching out to feel his long jacket coat.

John looked down at himself now feeling a lot tinier than he normally was.

"When there is time. Of course." Sherlock said surprisingly sweet. He suddenly put a hand cautiously on John's shoulder, "Mother this is John."

John felt the woman's stare intensely; he held out a hand, "Yes, I'm John Watson, pleasure to meet you Mrs. Holmes." He put on a tighter smile.

She smiled shortly back, "Pleasure is mine John. You hold yourself properly. What is your profession if I may inquire?" She shook softly.

John opened his mouth but there was a stereo, _"Doctor."_ That echoed. Both brothers had piped up as if on cue, then realizing what had happened they had a death glare at one another. John cleared his throat after the small silence, "Yes, um. An army Doctor, yes. Nothing strictly fancy I fear." He laughed almost nervously.

"John is my _partner_." Sherlock said with an almost pride.

Mycroft smiled and John tried not to cringe while their mother put on a most dastardly wicked look of her own in his direction. One he sort of recognized when Sherlock stood over a fresh dead corpse.

"Sherlock, honey! You didn't mention a Doctor in your future last visit. Oh how charming. Doctors are very professional." She looked him over and then breathed out, "However we will change your attire to match my son's later shall we?"

John could only nod, "Yes thank you."

Sherlock bounced and toned out, "We have been together for three months, four days. He dislikes sugar in his coffee, has an obsession with dental hygiene, watches far too much Telly on a Wednesday afternoon with black leaved steamed tea, I find he shakes his left foot when nervous mostly when sitting, he—"

"Point taken sweetie! You're doing that rambling thing again dear it's very unbecoming. You should cease that nasty habit."

Sherlock stopped talking and John saw Mycroft's lips curl up slightly at his suddenly stuff posture. John has needed a Sherlock manual from day one, she seems to write and publish them! He's never seen Sherlock shut up so fast.

"It's perfectly fine Mrs. Holmes, he means well of course." John said with every hope she didn't snap at him too, "He likes to show me off." He laughed to lighten the mood.

It didn't. He has no idea what he was thinking. Holmes didn't know what humor or feelings were in the least. He felt he would sweat on this one.

_Wait? Did he just defend him?_

Sherlock seemed to notice, he side glanced him with a suggestive look. John didn't linger on it. "Have you both eaten yet? I find myself starving." He tried again,

Mycroft played along this time, "No, I have not partaken in the layout yet, good idea Dr. Watson." He smiled. John heaved a relief, "Shall we then?"

They moved as a small crowd to the long spread out table, filled with steaming food that looked completely unrecognizable. John noticed he actually was unable to tell what anything was himself. Even up close. He grabbed a plate as he was first in their line. Sherlock didn't bother with it beside him. "Eat Sherlock." He whispered while pulling noodled pasta onto his glass china plate.

"Shh I'm trying to think John," he said destructively. John felt it was hopeless, so he reached down and took another small plate to attempt to get Sherlock something.

Halfway through the line, a woman dressed in a red gown, with a rose patterned hair clip to hold her blond long curls had made her way in front of him for a second helping, John didn't mind, however he noticed she had put more of what she already had on top of her plate. Her eyes fixed behind him, past him. To look at Sherlock with such disgust it was past a famous Anderson's. Impressively so, John found himself wanting to confront her. It was obvious of her intention being there to only make herself known to the detective.

However, knowing Sherlock he already knew that, but continued to ignore her while facing the opposite way, poking a bowl of food that held a resemblance to jello.

She was gone swiftly to rejoin a group of, uptight pompous, ladies who snickered and swore insults his way. They took turns to glare.

John was seeing the urge to do something stupid.

"More than normal stupid, keep in mind." Sherlock said beside him, the man doing that trick where he reads John's thoughts. Bloody annoying, that is.

After piling some fruit balls and delicious looking chicken and pork, he noticed Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes had already gotten themselves settled at a nearby white clothed table. Away from most crowds thankfully John and Sherlock moved to it, sitting across from each other, John had reluctantly took a seat next to their mother. Feeling out of sorts. He put Sherlock's small plate full of fruit and a lot of chicken pork in front of him, pushing a utensil his way. Sherlock noticed and just simply looked at him as if trying to decide how to say, no point in that.

Mycroft had a very small serving for the bigger plates, holding similar things such as the chicken and salads with small pieces of sushi. John felt a little out of sorts as always with the candies he picked from the bowl close to him on the table. Mother Holmes had a glass of wine. _Where did she acquire that_? John looked around quietly. Eyes avoiding the stares from the group of ladies in the opposite corner.

"Boys I must make you aware of my duties as a host, I cannot linger here too long."

"Quite understood," Mycroft said back.

Sherlock was still trying to tell John no. John was gesturing yes, eat or you will regret it. They had a silent battle.

"So? _Partners_?" She spoke up.

John was alert, chocolate candy in his mouth, "Oh, yes. Uh. Yes. Partners, us. We are yes." He mentally kicked himself.

"Really Sherlock?" She said with skeptical criticism.

"I think John made it clear." Sherlock mocked.

This time John thought of giving Sherlock the same kick. Only harder. A lot harder. He smiled regardless, "Yes, so happy together aren't we?"

No one missed Mycroft's soft snort.

Sherlock frowned leaning on his elbow and a losing eye contact, "From day one." What happened to his enthusiasm to win?

"Well, I'm surprised to say the least then, dear." She said sipping wine, "Happy that you're finally happy."

Another snort from Mycroft. John bet he would eventually choke on his sushi.

"To go as far as, proud?" Sherlock ventured, now looking as close to hopeful as he's ever been.

"Still have that little detective job with Scotland Yard?" She asked instead of answering,

"Unavoidably."

"Then _no,_ not quite proud." She frowned.

Sherlock instantly furrowed his brow as if disappointed, his hand darted across the table and took a candy from John's plate, unwrapping it violently and stuffing it in his mouth. He looked away.

John blinked, "Uh—"

"Was that one of those smoking patches on your arm? . . . Sweetie?"

Sherlock flinched. She continued, "Smoking again? I thought you had kicked that habit as a teenager. Disgusting." She took more wine. Mycroft choked on his sushi.

John smiled that time as Mycroft got a death glare from his mother; he put a hand out and apologized. It only made Sherlock stiffen further.

"Honestly boy, what has gotten into you these past years? Sherlock look at me when I talk to you."

Sherlock looked without turning his head,

"You can't keep working for the police; the papers portray you as some consulter of sorts, anonymous source of theirs. Like one of their loyal dogs. Sherlock don't give me that look." She said sternly, now crossing her legs and straightening, "I disapprove of your profession, it's not worthy of all those expensive schools I put you through. Your brother Mycroft at least visits me." She added at the end. She practically said Mycroft was doing better than him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, his hand reaching for another candy.

"Stop reaching across the table with such horrid manner!"

His hand froze as if to stop, but he snatched it anyhow, glaring at her. She huffed and was about to say something when John had had enough, "Oh _honestly_ Sherlock, stop taking my candy, eat your damn food to get some nutrients you are overdue for, and stop pouting about like some child." John stabbed a fruit ball with his fork. Forgetting who he was sitting with,

Mycroft's food didn't quite make it to his mouth.

Sherlock looked at John as if to yell for him to fuck off, however he just pouted further, elbow hit the table rudely and he grabbed his fork and did the same to a Mellon ball on his own plate. Eating it, "Shut up John." He growled, "I'm eating just fine,"

Mrs. Holmes laughed and made both boys flinch this time around. However she stopped and stood swiftly, "I am needed, do excuse me. Thank you for the long overdue chat, Sherlock."

She was gone, disappeared in the crowd.

John stuffed another sweet fruit ball in his mouth just because he wasn't sure what to say to relieve this tension. Luckily Mycroft did.

"I am sensing you, _partners_, need some alone time. Work out your newest domestic." He cleared his throat and stood with his plate, "Devine sushi this year. Don't you think?" He walked back to words the food table, apparently getting seconds.

John watched him leave then turned his attention to Sherlock, who was eating the pork without meeting his eyes. If he said something here, would it frighten him off?

"I—"

"Need more pork," he grumbled through a full mouth, standing abruptly and grasping his plate so tight John feared he would break it, not like there was time to warn him of the sudden outburst. He was on Mycroft's heels.

Now John sat alone really wishing he could get some well-deserved wine.

**X**

Oh yes of course it's always about Mycroft. Arrogant Mycroft. Mother has proved time and times again he was her favorite child. Mycroft, always so important to the _state_. No, he did his on purpose. To prove a point.

How childish. How dull. How, _stupid._

Mycroft was most definitely his, arch-enemy. No doubt deserved fate.

His apparent leave for seconds was nothing more than an invitation. Mentioning the sushi being, 'Devine' when no one had it at the table to compare. Unlike him to assume agreement.

He wanted to talk to him. About mother no doubt, about his behavior, about John, about the . . ._ Issue_ that's the rift in the family ties. Not. His. Fault.

Sherlock was onto his game from the beginning, only being stupid enough to think his dear brother was attempting to help him after all these years of showing him up. He had made that mistake due to thinking Mycroft wouldn't involve John in such a manner. In such a manner as to make them lovers? Why lovers? Mummy could have been easily just as excited about John being a doctor if the truth be told instead of this, this. Lie.

This said Mycroft was pushing the idea. _Ohhhh, oh of course._

"It's unlike you to take interest in my love life." He muttered.

They had made it to the long table; despicable fancy overly cooked to impress food lay out for anyone's grimy fingers to poke at it before consumption. Vile even.

Mycroft's posture. Still, focused on the sushi destination his plate. He flicked his eyes toward him when mentioning the subject, 'Love.' This was proving his ultimate involvement.

He had gained three pounds he didn't need the extra sushi. "Why are you here Sherlock?" He asked,

Oh avoiding the question. He wanted to avoid this? Distract him with the other motive of the evening.

"I had nothing better." It was a lie, a complete one that Mycroft knew better than to believe. Why did he say it then? Anger. Anger was clouding him.

"We both know that's a lie, after your stunt with Watson. Locked outside in the cold all night, that was an accident was it?" He scoffed out, picking through small fried foods.

Pointing out his mistake. Fuel to the fire, "Yes, in fact it was." He stayed calm.

"So John really can make you do anything?" He fully turned to him, his eyes held suggestion. Thick accusation. Posture straight said he was mocking him.

Jokes were effortlessly redundant, "I came for my own reasons. I suspect you wish to talk about, the issue."

"Not here." He got defensive.

Oh yes. The ladies in the corner of the room. Watching, listening, and sharing rumors. Untrue. They were _begging_ to be known.

Blond was a rehabilitated gambler and drunk, judging by her shaky hands clasping the wine earlier, she's back on her band wagon. Two kids and one isn't hers, adopted but not aware of the father. Nosy and complete social adaptive skills learned at a young career age, reporter. Oh not like she would put a personal column in the news, no. She's just honing in on the family gossip on instinct.

Now. Brown short hair skinny girl. Shy, arms close to the body, shifty eyes looking nervously at guys says slight abusive husband. Long sleeved shirts she pulls down to hide bruises. Husband because of her ring on her finger, thin and cheap says he doesn't like to lavish her, to impress others. She's low class and doesn't belong.

Next. The widow with the ridiculous eyebrow piercing, younger than the other two and her close attention with the blond says assistant. Typewriter because of the way she strums her fingers instinctively on her glass, but has pains from moving her fingers all day and she stops frequently to rub them. Stealing pens, cheap pens. There's red and blue pen marks fresh behind her ear. (Noticed when Sherlock passed her on his way to greet his mother.) different colors says different pens each time, yet cheap pens come in packs of many. Using a different one because she steals the ones previously used. Kleptomaniac to steal useless pens.

Last. The oldest, seventy year old grandmother who never sees her kids, she keeps glancing at one table with a family that resembles her facial structures. She longs to go over and talk to them but won't due to pride. She's petty and lonely and her family—no not even worth his thoughts.

No. They were no threat, but they did know of the gossip about him. Of the rumors.

Not. His. Fault.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft brought his attention snapping back from his accusations and crude ruthless deductions, oh how he was fantasizing telling them to their faces. They were just dripping with life ruining problems. Of all people to provoke him. Maybe then they could stop whispering behind his back like silly teenage girls. _Stupid._

"Sherlock, stop spacing about as such, keep up with what I'm telling you."

Anger again. So much frustration. "Mycroft. Stop interfering with my life."

"Stop needing it." He pinned back. Expecting that response.

Sherlock took pieces of whatever food was in front of him, make it appear to (Clearly John will be watching by now.) to be eating. He piled it, not caring the plate was too small for all the—

"Suddenly require a sweet tooth for cake?"

"Want some I suspect?"

Yes, yes of course he did.

"_Diet_." Mycroft drawled out, finally deciding to get his sushi.

Should have gone for the salad. Sherlock felt that anger lingering. Mycroft was always deemed better by standards hard to meet. Mother always insisted on Sherlock be like his brother. She doesn't approve of what he does? He saves people and sure is more fun than knowing the precisely right words to say to a pompous politician, or how to outwit the machinations of a magisterial monarch sound like such a boring waste of a perfectly good brain.

"Stop this childish feud you have conjured. Sherlock you can't possibly—_oh!"_

The plate had practically done it by itself. Although Sherlock did nothing to stop its intention of attack. He narrowed his eyes not feeling better in the least about what had just happened.

Oh. No remorse whatsoever.

**X**

John hoped it hadn't come to this. Both of them talking alone.

His plate was empty and he was chewing on candies, he really felt some desperate need for alcohol, some wine everyone had but him. He scratched his knee and turned his gaze to the brothers, who looked to just be talking about anything. He assumed somehow it was about what had happened earlier.

"Nice to see them talking as such," Mrs. Holmes voice from beside him. She sat down and set down a glass of clear wine in front of him.

Must be a family thing. Reading his mind, "Oh, thank you I was wondering, uh, where those were."

"Have they been talking the whole time I was departed?" She asked,

John was now feeling very much alone at the table despite their mother. _Sherlock should come back._

"Yes, I hope they are getting along alright." He took a drink.

"They never did," she almost smiled as if hiding disappointment, then changed the subject accordingly, "You enjoy being a Doctor?"

"Oh I suppose so. Helping people the best I can, so I enjoy that."

"You love him?" She suddenly said.

John swallowed hard and put down his drink, coughing a little than clearing his throat, "Sherlock?" His voice didn't sound right,

She turned to look at him, "Yes, he has always neglected that word. Always thought it a nuisance or waste of time. I know it can help change him."

"Uh, oh—hm, change him?"

"Yes he is always so insensitive and well. Lonely."

John nodded. He suspected so, the man never really held on to friends. He figured he was his only one purely because they lived together.

"Well at least you have him eating." She smiled back. John was glad the subject changed again, he wasn't able to answer those questions. He had no idea where to start.

He looked at where Sherlock stood, putting something on his plate. A lot of it by the looks. John smiled feeling a sense of pride that—yes. Yes he could get him to eat. If not all the time at least some times. He may not be able to force him to sleep or clean properly, but on occasions where it mattered most, Sherlock listened.

Did he love him?

"That better not be the _cake_." Mrs. Holmes snarled out suddenly as a warning. They were both watching the two brothers now, she stood as if to go over and confront them. John stood too, feeling obliged to. "He's gotten into the _ceremony cake_?" She was sounding a little past cross.

John winced as he walked a behind her once she started advancing, he doubled back for his wine quickly.

As they came upon them, there was a sudden shift in atmosphere. The boys both looked hostile.

"Sherlock!" His mom bellowed out, now upon him. John watched in disbelief as Sherlock had dumped his plate piled high with cake, onto Mycroft. It got all over his shoes and splattered onto his jacket. Mycroft looked furious.

That face belonged on a serial killer. Sherlock's belonged on a spoiled child. He grinned before turning as if to leave. He stopped when his mom and John were right there.

"My cake!" She flipped, "that _wasn't_ supposed to be eaten."

Sherlock held a straight face, "I—"

"_How childish_." Mycroft had used napkins that John had gotten for him to attempt to wipe some off, "That was so _childish_."

Sherlock glanced at John with a pleading look, as if innocent to the events. As if not his fault. John frowned back at him.

"Not-good then?" He seemed to only ask John.

John answered softly, "Not-good."

"Sherlock! You need to leave right now! Go to the store for a new one be quick before seven." Mrs. Holmes said quickly, snapping for some of her help to clean up the mess.

Sherlock looked horrified for a second, "There are plenty of other cakes in the kitc—"

"_Now_." She snapped.

Sherlock straightened and glared at Mycroft as if it was his fault, "Come then John."

"No. Go alone." She said, now helping Mycroft with cleaning his jacket. Mycroft glared back.

John was aware of some of the guests beside them growing quiet with whispers, "Yes, I agree. You should go without me." He said but really doubted he could do something simple like get a cake without him. Their mother nodded at him with an approval.

John could feel why Sherlock wanted that look so much, it was a little uplifting.

Sherlock held a stern face, one that hides his frustration, and he tightened his jacket, "Alright then." He walked past John and stopped to say in a low tone, "_Of course I can handle it without you._"

"Sorry Sherlock." He said quietly back with a genuine apology.

That made Sherlock looked confused at him, then looked down before continuing for the door.

John felt he may have just realized he wasn't out to get him like Sherlock thought everyone was. Whatever could have provoked him so much as to make him spill cake on Mycroft. Granted the man deserved a punch now and again, but Sherlock never stopped so low.

John frowned before taking another drink of wine.

* * *

**I personally think Mycroft deserved it for being the obvious favorite. ha**


	8. Always Burns

"Are you even sure he will be back then?" John shifted in his seat, holding his third helping of white wine clasped in his hand.

Mycroft sat adjacent in a chair fit for him, elegant and showy. It had red wooden legs, carved with fancy swirls and knobs along the sides. Symmetrical to the arm rests, matching the wood of the fireplace they sat in front of. The sun had dimmed outside curtained windows.

"He wouldn't leave you here, _his date_, unattended." Mycroft crossed his legs and adjusted his new coat his mother had given him, almost identical to the last. He gazed into the fire.

Most of the guests had gone home; Mycroft had explained they were guests of the guests and not relative family. Now, as they sat in a different room off the main one, those who remained were a few children and teenagers who crowded near a grand piano, scolding the little ones when they touched the keys. Some adults had followed them in the cozier room, but a most had been in the main circular ball room still nibbling on their food at the white clothed tables.

Mrs. Holmes joined the few in the other room. And Mycroft had pulled John aside to sit by the fire and chat. When he said chat John didn't really expect so much awkward silence.

Sherlock had been gone for an hour and a half. Nothing heard from him.

John checked the time again, looking at an impressive large face above the fire, looking to be a part of the mantle.

Sherlock had been gone two hours.

"Leaves me places all the time." He argued. He really didn't put it past him. He didn't want to be here and John saw he was seeing why. It was rather boring.

"Um, Mr. Croft?"

The tiny voice was from a teenager, she was cautious as she approached Mycroft, standing near him with fiddling fingers. Not the first to come up to him and not pronounce his name correctly, John noted. At least this girl was being nice about the question that would surely follow.

"Mycroft child, I'm not found of nicknames." He still gazed into the fire, "Come to ask about rumors?"

She looked back at her other teenage cousins and nieces, they seemed to egg her on, "Um, is it true?"

"About my brother I presume, be more specific."

She frowned, "Yes, um, about Sherlock. Was he here?"

"Was." He frowned back, now looking at her.

Red curly locks and a pink cute buttoned dress. Something her mom must have picked out she kept rubbing her dirty hands on it making stains across the sides. She looked to be fifteen, older than her quiet voice.

She nodded with understanding, "I hear from my mum, he can—can read minds. Is, is that true? Is he coming back?"

Mycroft laughed, which scared the girl a little, "No, no I don't wish to say he can. Who could tell with Sherlock, really? I wouldn't give him so much credit. What he does is hardly considered as such."

She went through his words carefully, "So, he won't be back?"

"Undecided, now please rejoin your social group so as to share the news. I don't need more of you bothering me."

She scampered off quickly out the door and around the short corner back to the piano. Keys were heard faintly being smashed by little ones.

John cleared his throat, "Sherlock sure is popular with the kids." By now they were alone in the study.

"Not so much the children as their parents." He frowned further, "Caused a commotion with him showing up after so long."

"I know he's stubborn, but I didn't think he would neglect family so harshly." John said, finding himself stuck looking into the fire too.

There wasn't an answer to it, so John said, "You said, who knows about Sherlock? Earlier." He paused, "Wouldn't you know him? Being his brother, I only assume."

"Yes, suppose that's a logical conclusion. However, our childhood wasn't something worth getting to know each other over."

"Hm?" John pushed. He wanted to know how Sherlock came to act the way he did, maybe because of something in his past? Anything worth knowing, he was damn curious.

"Yes, you are curious as most people are. Don't see why, he's nothing special really." He muttered, "however, in your case . . . ."

"_What?"_ His pitch raised in suspicion, "My case? You—you mean cause I live with him?"

"And work with him, yes. I suppose. No—really I'd share something if not anything with you, because Dr. Watson, you are part of his life if not his whole life entirely."

John put his drink down and suddenly felt the warmth of the fire, "I'm nothing like that really. I just share a flat with him."

"Believe me when I say," Mycroft looked directly at him, "Sherlock Holmes doesn't occupy living space, not breathing space, with anyone unintentionally or purposefully. He knew you were coming I assure you."

"Knew? Knew that? I highly doubt his skills go as far as seeing someone before they are there," John tried to hide the swell of his heart in his chest, the feeling of being . . . Special. _Special to Sherlock._

"He never had friends. Not real ones anyhow." Mycroft stopped looking at him and glanced behind his shoulder at the doorway, no one was there, but he seemed to be recalling a time there once was.

* * *

Bare footed footsteps headed down the stairs echoed faintly, running at a set pace into the hallway, past the ballroom, and then halting at the door-frame of the study.

"Mycroft." Came a stern little voice, "It's been four hours since you promised to help me."

"I lied Sherlock, leave me." Mycroft's younger self was skinnier, slim frame wearing a private school uniform, he was tucked in on himself in the same elegant chair as he read a book of, _'The Lamplighter'_, a 19th century cherished novel. His hair full of curls that matched his younger brothers, who still stood behind him with a tall candle lite and the wax dripping down centimeters from his tiny hands,

"Do you have a micro-fine glass?" He asked, he pushed his wild hair out of his eyes, which is mostly what he was he was so tiny. He was dark brown curls. Refused to let anyone cut his hair. Small buttoned nose and slight cuts on his face from miscellaneous situations. He wore his pajamas most days, too big for him and white to match the cold snow outside.

"_No_."

Sherlock was frail looking and he struggled to hold his candle, "Yes you do, Mycroft why do you lie to me all the time?"

"How could you possibly know I have one? Stop snooping in my room Sherlock I'm sick of you meddling." Mycroft had set his book down on his lap to frown, "Leave me alone."

"You're in biology this year? Let me see your book."

"No, you're hardly even old enough to understand those words_. Go away_."

"Ow." Sherlock muttered, the wax finally hitting his hand and Sherlock dropped the candle with a disappointed frown, "Always burns me."

* * *

"He would come over and stay with me here, a lot. He had a private school he went to after being home schooled by Mother who was out doing business and parties after he turned seven. Father was, well. Not around thankfully." Mycroft was brought back to John.

"Your father?"

"Touchy subject, yes. He was," he paused as if how to say, "temper prone. Not patient. I left as soon as I could."

"You were how old when you got this house?" John saw that Mycroft hadn't really planned on saying his father was abusive. John didn't want to push it.

"Sixteen." He said, "it wasn't legally mine until I turned eighteen naturally, but it was considered mine. No one else lived here besides Sherlock most days. He was so annoying back then, well." He laughed, "Not much more annoying."

John laughed with him, "He was a handful then?"

"Oh yes, always wanting to know what I learned when I got home from private school, as to get ahead of his peers. Spent his time in the basement cellar, mother feared he was ill, by the way he made random appearances and never liked to be touched in the slightest, had various scraps or bruises on his body that seemed to come from nowhere. Of course, some were from our father's abusive nature, but Sherlock knew how to avoid such conflict with him." He sighed and drank from his coffee cup, "Well, she had him diagnosed as depressed, ADD, Autistic, ADHD, and many other personality disorders. Of course all from different doctors, who saw him four times a week sometimes. I know he didn't go most days because I was the only one to walk him to the doctors. Didn't take his medication either, honestly, at the time I wasn't concerned. I was too busy with my work."

"_Oh_. I figured he would have made a strange child. I didn't know you both were going through all that."

"It wasn't a bother to until Sherlock started taking notice to me. Around the age of twelve, he was following me. Watching me in silence and taking notes. He had this notebook that he would deny having if you brought it up. He would go to the store with me, only to run off to talk to strangers."

"_He willingly went to grocery stores_?" John laughed.

"Frequently. He loved strangers, new people to ask new questions. Such as, why do you have three rings, why are you left handed and not right, and other childish things. My mind caught a lot of those answers subconsciously; I fear he dragged me into his deductive obsession. I didn't know it at the time."

"Ohh, that's how it started hm?"

"Not sure how it started. Not quite sure." Mycroft thought it over, looking back at the doorframe to see the scorch mark on the floor, he turned back to the fireplace, "He was around eighteen himself when he just snapped out of it."

"What? Snapped out of what?" John checked his phone and got a little worried, Sherlock wasn't back yet? He was thinking of texting him.

"One day he came out of the basement and ate dinner with me at the table. Went to school regularly everyday. He went upstairs to his room to sleep, talked and visited with mother when she came around, and with father, he no longer avoided."

"Why do you suppose he did that?"

"Acted normal or avoided our father? You should be specific."

"Both really, sorry."

Mycroft scratched his hand before drinking his coffee again, "Yes, well. He made a terrible mistake one night, father lashed out at us both," he uncrossed his legs to lean his elbows on them, "I'm afraid I must spare the details. Don't remember much, but Sherlock had ran away."

"Really? How long before he returned?"

"I came across him one evening after college, _a year later_ I saw he was dressed horribly like a homeless gentleman, very unprofessional. He sat in the library across the street from my bus stop. He must have known I would see him, he looked up at me with no surprise. . ."

"What did you do?"

Mycroft looked at him and simply answered, "Got on my bus."

**-ooOOoo-**

John felt a heavy weight as he looked past the crackling fire, knowing this was the house Sherlock had grown up in, where he and Mycroft had a personal hell with their father. It wasn't what he expected. Their mother made the illusion that they lived happily. At least, he somehow got that vibe. Mycroft wasn't paying too much attention now, looking to be lost in his own thoughts. John got his phone out and saw he had a text.

From Lastrade?

**RECIEVED**: 7:22pm- 'John, we have a problem. You're not home are you?'

John sighed and responded with, 'No, Sherlock isn't with me at the moment, can't say we can get to a case until he gets back. J.'

'I know he isn't with you.'

'What? J.'

'He's here at the station. He got himself arrested at a nearby store. I bailed him but he fell asleep in my office. Please come get him.'

'Arrested? Whatever for? J.'

'Just come get him. Anderson is threatening to draw on his face.'

John cracked a small smile at the thought. But he took it back as he looked at Mycroft with a grimace, "Uh, I just got news of Sherlock."

Mycroft flicked his eyes to him, "_Oh yes_, he got himself _arrested_. Yes, I assume mother will have me go rescue him." He stood swiftly.

John frowned, "You going to tell her, uh, where he is then?"

"No, I suppose I won't. Just stay here, I'll retrieve him."

He walked out to the ballroom so he could tell mother Holmes of the situation, whatever it may be. It figured Mycroft already knew where Sherlock was.

John stood and dialed Lastrade's number as he ducked into a more private, small hallway leading to the kitchen no one occupied. Lastrade answered, "John? Hey." He sighed, "This is getting ridiculous."

"I'm sorry for whatever happened, Sherlock hasn't slept recently. Hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"I found _three handfuls_ of melted chocolate candy in his pocket, you wanna explain that?"

"We are attending a party for his Aunt." John explained, looking at the decorative wallpaper. He couldn't recall when he could have picked up all that candy.

"Well I had gotten a call from department Seven, telling me Sherlock had been taken in and only said he wanted to speak to me. Than by the time I arrived, he was blood shot eyed and falling asleep. He finally tipped over when I was asking him what happened here."

"Eyes bloodshot? Look, Mycroft will be over to get him, my hands are tied."

"Awh damn, last thing I need is the government coming over here to bark orders at me. Yeah, he reeks of pepper spray."

"_Christ_." John muttered. What could Sherlock have gotten himself into? It was just a cake run. That's it. He couldn't even do something simple. "Well I don't think you will get much trouble from Mycroft."

"No, he's not as bad as this one I'm lookin at." He laughed a little, then turned serious, "Get outa here, I'm telling you no." He spoke to someone else on the other side of the line. John guessed Anderson. He still argued, "There's no reason for it. I know I know. . _. No._ Leave my office will ya. Get out," he went back to laughing, "I can't handle this."

"You're lucky he's asleep then." John snickered back.

"That's what I hear. Look, I'm sorry I can't explain what happened just yet, I'll get you caught up when I can. I should go, I can see Anderson grabbing some permanent markers."

"Alright thanks again, bye."

He hung up and sighed again before moving back to the study. The fire was well welcomed, it was freezing in the house. He heard some people still talking in the ball room; he sipped his wine before sitting again. He closed his eyes and his mind started to wonder about their childhood again. In these rooms.

Mycroft had talked as if he didn't pay any attention to Sherlock when he was small, that he didn't care for him. However now, Mycroft worried for him more than anyone. Maybe he feels bad about the past? John figured he would feel the same. Mycroft was the prize child and all that praise probably clouded him from what was going on with his little brother. Poor Sherlock lived who knows how long out on his own, homeless.

No wonder he had a homeless network, probably recruited their trust at a young age.

Why was he so damn curious? Sherlock was always suspicious and mysterious sure, but it wasn't like he really needed to know. By the sound of it Sherlock had a good reason not to talk about it. Not to like family.

Is this what he was talking about when he told John half his family despised him? Sounded like a lousy reason to give dirty looks.

Maybe it was something else.

"Seems he couldn't even get a cake." Mrs. Holmes had a new habit of sneaking up behind John when he was thinking. He jumped a little and looked at her, "Oh, well he's been exhausted lately."

"Sherlock can't do many things right, it's no one's fault." She straightened her dress.

"Well—"

"Let me show you to your room John, I'll be turning in early so I'd like you to know where you'll be sleeping. Here, come on." She smiled sweetly and he stood to meet her, "We can get you proper clothes for the morning party. There will be less people, however."

They walked back through the ballroom and made their way down the hallway to the stairs near the front door, John looked at it as if he expected Sherlock to come barging in.

"Are all your guests staying then?" He attempted conversation as they ascended the stairs, he felt the wood bend softly underneath him and the railings had numerous scratched as it guided his hand.

"Yes, some downstairs past the kitchen, there are a few rooms. You and Sherlock can stay in his old room. I don't expect him to be in a different one in his own home,"

John felt a ping of nervousness was over him, "_The same room?"_

"Yes he has a double bed, you will fit just fine. Don't worry. Oh! I have breakfast scheduled early around seven, do try to make it." They got to the top and walked across the balcony, John glanced at the door again. Still nothing.

"I can't say we share a bed, ma'am."

"your together aren't you? Oh don't tell me Sherlock won't allow you to sleep with him! That is rude, very rude of him. I won't tolerate it. You two belong together."

"_Belong?"_ He choked out, "Uh,"

They stopped at the first door to the right; she opened it and let John take a glance inside.

Dark purple walls lined with wood trim framed the small space. A dining chair in the corner accompanying the desk which held old papers and what looked like chalk. The chalkboard hung on the wall, looking overly used and scratched, but wiped clean of its previous contents. John saw that the double bed had been scooted against the wall, pushed back with white sheets and a large woven blue blanket that looked really warm to sleep under. Not much else in there. No other signs of living.

"Kept it mostly as it was when he had left." She said beside him, "He was gone two years."

"Two years?" John was feeling himself lost in all the sadness his past held.

"Finally crawled home one day after being arrested for, _oh god_. For unholy drug abuse." She frowned, "I couldn't let him dabble in such nasty habits. No."

John frown with her, "You got him help then?"

"Lord knows I tried. I had tried everything, but he still came home after doing who knows what all day, high on everything _unholy_." She huffed, and then straightened her dress again, "Well. I hope you two are making each other happy, none of that is necessary."

"Oh, no. No of course not. Uh, yes we are." John tried to reassure her.

She nodded stiffly, "Good. Now. I will allow you to decide rather to come back downstairs and mingle, you're not obligated to dear," she reminded politely, "I'm off to bed, it's past eight already."

He nodded as she left.

Share a bed with Sherlock Holmes. _God help him_.

* * *

**Wow, sad. I've come up with a lot of ideas concerning the Holmes' past. Maybe my next Fanfic will consist of it. Based as almost a prequel to this. It all depends on how long this will be -I have no idea how long- ha. Hopefully long enough. Had a bit of a flashback in this chapter, may be more to come. **

**Thankyou for reading so far, hope I haven't cause too many feels! Sure know I have em.**

**I'm also working on some fanart based on my story, I will get a link or something up when I finish in case you wish to see~~**

**Hold tight there's more coming~**

**(SideNote) (FunFact) The book younger Mycroft is reading, 'The Lamplighter' Is seen in Sherlock's flat a few times in the series. It has a meaning to be there and honestly I'm not sure exactly what it is. Has to do with surveillance I believe. I just figure Sherlock took it from Mycroft years ago and keeps it as a trophy of some-sort. **


	9. Six Cats

This wasn't the first time, and no, before you start jumping through that fact and come to an inappropriate conclusion, it was for a case. And, they hadn't technically shared the bed. About three weeks ago they had stayed in a grand hotel, Billiards bed and breakfast. Cozy little rooms and friendly staff, yes John would have loved to of enjoyed half if it if not been dragged all over the places he didn't want to particularly be in. A cleaning lady had come across a body in one if the rooms, however the reason Sherlock was called was because the man had checked out of the hotel a day prier. There were witnesses. Sherlock had posed as a wealthy guest in the same room to investigate. Turned out there was a slow acting poison in the cork of his complimentary wine and he had simply come back to the room the next day unnoticed because he was conspiring in drug deals. Sherlock hated that particular case because the man, who did it, turned himself in.

Sherlock hates that more than anything.

Back to the original point, yes, there was one bed that night. John had been forced to keep an eye out for anyone in the rooms next door. He had fallen asleep and awoke by Sherlock yelling at the maid the next morning about clean towels. Didn't exactly pass as the best nights rest.

This time he was exhausted and Sherlock was obviously not going to be pulling an all-nighter. If he thought he was going to be sleeping on the floor he had another thing coming.

No. John didn't go back down stairs to mingle with the Holmes family, or at least the ones still down there. Simply because there were too many stares when he_ was_ paying attention. They knew he had arrived with Sherlock, by now it was already the children's bedtime story.

It wasn't all that long before there was a knock and John had turned his head to watch as the American helper boy, Brendon, opened the door.

"Oh dear, what happened to him?" He asked softly enough to be genuinely surprised. His hands clasped the door as he held it ajar when John saw Mycroft stepping inside with Sherlock half on his shoulder appearing drunk. John wouldn't have known better just by looking at him.

Mycroft glanced up at John as he stood looking back from the balcony, then turned to Brendon with a smile, "Had a rough day, you understand."

"Oh, yes I do. " John suspected he was lying.

Sherlock was heard grumbling something that didn't quite echo back to John's ears, but by the embarrassed look on Brendon's it said he had just mentioned the gay attraction to his brother again. Brendon scurried away quickly after the conversation ended. Mycroft came to the stairs and had now shoved Sherlock to walk on his own, "Go on, do stop being a brute."

"I can't see what he sees in you." Sherlock was now speaking a little past a whisper and John was already on his way down the stairs to help out his friend with cautious worry.

"A cake. It was just a bloody cake. How did you get yourself pepper sprayed?" He grabbed Sherlock's elbow to guide his fumbling steps up instead of sideways,

"I could ask the same thing." Mycroft was heard. Looking surprised as he could get at John's reaction to help. Sherlock didn't like it in the least bit,

"I can walk _fine_," He muttered than proceeded to shake John off and instead used the railing for what it's purpose is. He regained an impressive amount of balance considering. Mycroft hung back at the bottom of the stairs, "No longer joining me Dr. Watson?"

"No, I've found a terrible pay in the babysitting business," he said back, shaking off the feeling of Sherlock's cold response to his help.

Not like he wasn't used to it.

Mycroft nodded, but haunted gracefully as his brother stopped mid ascent to say, "We aren't done chatting. I still have more to say."

"You always do brother." Mycroft answered back, "Good luck babysitting John," he now disappeared below them down the hallway.

John followed the tail of Sherlock's coat, which fluttered behind him once they got to the top step, he was tucking his hands in his pockets and shifting his shoulders. John stopped at the doorway, "So, are you going to explain this, or . . .?"

He got a side glance as he was standing at the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, "Hand me a patch, I need one."

"_Now? _No, I thought we agreed one at a time, you still have that one on your wrist?"

"In my pocket, John. Hand it to me." He sighed and was now scratching at his red irritated eyes. John got a waft of the pepper spray as he walked close, "Let me see you're clean, did you pay for patches instead of what you were set off to do?"

"He took my candy." Sherlock growled as he stood and shrugged his jacket off violently, then his scarf, throwing it on the floor where John picked it up. Inside his pocket was an unwrapped patch, "Re-using them? That some sort of physiological thing?"

"Give it." He put his hand out as he stood in front of him, using his other hand to rub his itchy eyes. There was no patch on his arm that had been there earlier, John slapped it in his outstretched hand. "There, then. Here."

He took it and smacked it upon his arm, "He took my candy so I took his patch." He breathed in as if feeling the effects, "Mmm well deserved."

"Deserved? You stole Lestrade's smoking patch? Sherlock that isn't a good trade off for your bloody candy." John put Sherlock's clothes on the back of the desk chair lightly, his hand lingered on them as he turned around, "Was it right off his arm? How did you accomplish that?"

"You've been talking to my brother."

"Yes, well. Yes. A lot of people have. You stuck me with him, you did."

He slouched on the bed, and then flopped down on his back with his pale patched arm up in the air. He closed his eyes and drawled out, "Nooo, you've been speaking of personal affairs. Probably mine by the pity looks stuck on your expression."

"Pity? _Oh really_—"

"Yes. _Pity_." He said it as if a curse. Like he's known that look many times. John figured living as a homeless bloke could have caused such frequent looks.

John took a seat on the desk chair and it squeaked on his weight, "How could you have possibly known about us speaking of you?"

"Mycroft loses some filters when sipping wine, probably switched to coffee after two glasses?" He lifted his head to see John's mannerism confirm it, "That and you just told me so when asking."

John sighed in defeat, "Well It wasn't anything bad, he, he just told me of some things concerning your childhood—"

Sherlock groaned loudly and rolled over on the bed to his stomach. John wasn't sure if he should continue trying to defend their conversation, but he tried again anyhow, "Well, uh. Yes nothing bad. Just that he never paid you any attention and that you were home schooled most days." He nodded to himself to try and stop his racing thoughts on spilling it all. He wanted to say sorry for your childhood and sorry I'm so cross with you most days, I didn't know. He didn't say it.

Sherlock groaned again, than shifted back over to face the ceiling, his arm covering his eyes, "I don't need you being sorry John."

"I didn't exactly say—"

"It's written all over you!" He groaned out, pushing his arm down in his eyes or rub them, "Ohh, uh. I need my knife, where is a knife? My eyes need to be scratched out!"

"Don't be so dramatic."

He sat up in a rush, "Your right. The pretentious woman at the drug store was though, nail biter, three husbands and a string of woman lovers, failing career in acting," he paused slightly, "atrocious career choice for her and her age. She has six cats and lives alone despite the three husbands, has—"

"Oh, cool it would ya?" John waved his hand in an attempt to stop his rampage of insults.

Sherlock didn't hear it, "could of had a stroke at age twenty seven, due to her frequent over the counter drug abuse. You should really read those labels. She should try to wash her hair and get a professional plastic surgeon if she really wants that acting job in America. I think she—"

"_Sherlock_!"

He finally stopped to look at him as if he hadn't just insulted someone, "What? She had no right to pepper spray me. I didn't touch her!"

Now John was laughing and dammit he had no idea why. Suppose it was the look of shock on Sherlock's face, like he never saw it coming. No, maybe it was the insults to a women he's never met but could now picture clearly. He just laughed.

"What? John why are you laughing?"

"Haha, oh oh. _Haaaha_!" He tried but hell knows he couldn't bloody stop. He doubled over in the chair and it was getting so bad as a wheeze. Oh he couldn't stop if he tried, "Oh, hah, she, ha, she's done what most people wish they could do, do to you, haha!"

"You want to pepper spray me then?" Sherlock smiled back as if his laughing was contagious,

"Oh, oh yes, some days yes." He finally stopped and straightened, letting out a, "Ahhh, hah,"

Sherlock laughed quietly with him, "I'd rather it be a _piss off_,"

"Get that quite often too then." He smiled back, "What part of all that did she smack you? What did you do to make her use the spray?"

Sherlock stopped smiling, "There's a saying for curiosity John. Is there bits of food left, I find myself hungry."

"You're horrible at changing subjects. I can see that expression you have there." John answered standing, "however yes, there's food. If I get it, you're eating it."

"In that case don't bother." Sherlock lay down on the bed again, slumping back.

There was a silence before John said, "Three husbands and lady lovers and she still lives alone with all those cats?" He smirked when Sherlock's head came up to raise an eyebrow, "Bloody lot of lovers for someone in need of surgery."

"You're jealous because she's doing better with women than you are." Sherlock snickered back. This caused John to look up acting hurt, "_What me?_ I need no help in that department, mind you!"

"Oh yes sure, lots of women. . . Could use a bit of advice on keeping them hm?"

"That's your fault you git!" He laughed. Sherlock's head hit the bed, he laughed with him, "And since when are you inclined to give dating advise? I don't see you coming home with a woman."

"No interest in them John, I've told you that."

"What, never? Not even one lover?"

Sherlock sighed, "Don't believe everything you hear. Don't believe everything you don't."

"Uh, that a yes or no?" John laughed, "Can you ever give straight answers?"

"No fun in that." Sherlock said back.

There was that silence again, but this time Sherlock stopped it when he said out of the blue, "I've no need for a woman, I have my blogger." He lifted his head to muse in John's pink toned bewildered face, "Practically close enough anyhow."

Now it was embarrassment, "Sherlock, what the _hell_ is wrong with you?" He crossed his arms defensively. He had called him a girl, not like he wasn't already his nagging wife anyhow. Some truth there. Damn him.

"You should go ask my brother. Apparently he can tell you where my life took a wrong turn," he said it with amusement, but John knew him better than to say there was some pain and betrayal. As if he really didn't want John to know of his past. For whatever reason.

"Well—uh, well." John stuttered out, "Mycroft said nothing horrible about you at the least."

"You know then?" He sat up and rubbed the nicotine patch on his arm, "Say it, he told you didn't he?"

"What?"

"Why my family despise me. Why they all look at me as such, talk behind my back."

John shifted his weight uncomfortably, "Suspected it was your charm." He tried to laugh off the serious but Sherlock's face held its stern accusing look, "No, no he didn't say that I don't think."

"Want to hear it from me?" He turned a little cold.

John wasn't sure what to do so he just stared at him, "Uh. . ."

Sherlock stood suddenly, using that intimidating height he had over John and he walked over to him, hand still on his patch, grasping it tight now as if to squeeze every drop of nicotine into his system. His grey blue eyes stuck into John and he leaned in close,

_"I had murdered all my former babysitters."_

John felt a little loss for words until the corners of Sherlock's lip curved up the slightest bit. "Your bloody liar! That's not funny!" He shoved him playfully and now Sherlock was laughing.

"That's not even a little funny Sherlock, that's cruel."

He waved him off, "True is what it is. In some aspects." He moved to close the door elegantly, an obnoxious yawn caught him off guard and he looked back at John, "We share my room?"

"Uh, yeah, yes your mother thought you rude for not sharing a bed with me sooner," his smile lingered, "Tired then? Caught up with you pretty quick by the sound of you falling asleep in the station."

"Oh, yes. Suppose I did," Sherlock rubbed his eyes again, frowning at the memory before his feet took him to the bed again, "Hope it isn't too dreadfully cold tonight. This house doesn't warm correctly." His hands traveled to his belt where his slender fingers curled around the clasp to undo it.

John averted his eyes and went to possibly turn the light off so he wouldn't even have a thought of watching, "You're, uh, not getting fully undressed . .?"

"Isn't quite the honeymoon yet." He mused back, now untucking his shirt as if it made a difference, "I cannot avoid sleep tonight, oh don't turn that off yet, no I find myself in need of sleep unavoidably."

John nodded as if to really understand what he was saying, "Oh. Yes."

"I talk in my sleep, and frequently sleep walk. Do not be alarmed. Just calmly wake me." He said as his lanky frame tucked himself back into the corner spot on the bed, "And you have reoccurring nightmares that accompany you waking in a frightened state of panic, do not worry I shall not wake from your movements." He waved to the light switch, "Turn it off now."

John sighed and flipped the switch, really wishing he didn't need to sleep with his jeans on, these trousers were nothing if not tight in the wrong areas. He cringed in the dark at the thought of his loss of comfort. He crossed the room that now only had light coming from the hallway under the door and he dipped into the bed. He set his phone on the bedside table and let out a breath.

Sherlock was a foot away from him. Why was that on his mind? Why was that making his hands feel clammy? What was going on exactly?

"You don't need to sleep in discomfort, you may remove your trousers only on the condition you have something underneath." Sherlock had said beside him.

Oh so close to him. Oh dammit what was wrong with his dodgy thoughts? He breathed out, "What? Take my jeans off with you in the bed, I can't say that's necessary,"

"Why are you so nervous? Your voice was shaking. John?"

Oh dammit now he was turning to word him, shifting over on the bed, "Was it? I hadn't noticed sorry.."

"I don't like this just as much as you, it should be one night. However there is word of a snow storm tomorrow, oh I do hope we aren't snowed in." He paused, "how well does your coat keep the chill out? We could very possibly walk home."

He was talking to himself now, John was sure of it. He just wished he would sleep already and leave him alone to sort his racking thoughts. "Sherlock? You need to be quiet to sleep."

"Oh yes." He sighed back, shifting over to his back again, "It's possible I could go myself, you wouldn't need to company me through a snow storm John no. You would get too cold too fast. I'd have to slow down for you."

"Whatever you want, please just sleep."

"I don't think I'm tired much anymore. Maybe we could test how well your coat keeps the cold out?" He sat up.

"Oh, no no. Lay down and sleep I know you're tired." John reached out in the dark and took hold of his arm to pull him down gently, "here."

He obliged, "Ah, your right, what am I if not fully composed tomorrow to deal with my family again . . .for a whole day. ."

"I like your family, your mother seems very nice.."

"Ohhh well she certainly practiced her manners." He scoffed.

"What could that possibly mean? I like how proper she is. Too bad she couldn't get it to stick to you." He laughed slightly.

"Maybe then she would approve of me." He had muttered beside him. If any other place in the room you wouldn't of been able to hear him. John frowned in the darkness, "Sherlock, I didn't see what you do so wrong. I think she has a lot to be proud of you for."

"I don't care." Sherlock had shrugged him off, John could feel him scooting away from him on the bed.

"Like, your bloody brilliant, excessively so. Dangerous actually," he started. There was no movement to object so he continued, "You save a lot of people and believe it or not they are thankful for that. I think that's a good reason to be proud."

There still wasn't movement. John couldn't tell if what he said was too much for him or he really didn't care like he had said. Didn't seem likely after all the fuss earlier in the day, "You shouldn't have to be in a relationship with someone, especially me, to get her attention."

There was a sound of fabric moving, "Worked only because it _was_ you John."

Now the quiet was John's doing and he wasn't sure where to go from there. So he shut up and let the sound of their breathing be enough. Well, even that was unnerving. Damn he hated his jeans. He shifted uncomfortably.

"That seems the only thing I lack. That truly makes a difference to her."

"What is?" He shifted again,

"Being with you." He said very softly and then shifted himself. John was about to answer when he talked again, quickly and changing the subject as he normally did, "If it makes you feel better I can take mine off too?"

"Makes me feel better? Dammit. When do you care so much about my comfort?" He sighed.

"I can't have you moving so much," he yawned again.

Of course Sherlock was only thinking of himself voluntarily, of course. "well I won't be caught bare legged and in my pants, both of us, in your bed Sherlock."

"I won't say a word. People here already think this is what we do every night anyhow, I suspect with more sexual mannerisms."

John cleared his throat and a wave of blood rushed to his cheeks, "Ah, uh. Uh."

"You are doing that stuttering thing again."

"Uh, well. Yes I am. _I am_. Er, well. Cheers then, yes. . . If I do will you shut it and nod off?" He crossed his arms, "it's damn right freezing anyhow."

"Just use the extra blanket at the end here, why are you so embarrassed. Am I missing something?" He had yanked the crochet blanket off the end and threw it on John, "Yes I will sleep knowing you won't be moving around so much."

"Fine, fine alright then, fine." He moved to unbutton his trousers after all.

"_Fine."_ Sherlock said.

Now John was fully aware of just how embarrassed he was. Laying in his undergarment next to his flat mate, sharing a bed, in the dark, and his mind was going places he didn't want it to. Why was he so flustered? He pulled the blanket up for more warmth and instantly got it, Now, if only the warmth helped him sleep. If only he could stop thinking so much. He bet it was the wine.

Wine brought his mind back to the conversation with Mycroft, who was probably downstairs right now by the fireplace having another one of those flashbacks of his childhood. John breathed as even as he could manage. Mycroft was willing to share so much, yet this big rift or tear in the family, all the rumors and nasty looks. _Will Sherlock ever really tell him what happened_? Did John already know somehow from Mycroft's stories?

He honestly hoped he could just not be so damn curious as he was tending to be all day. He wondered how the day would have gone if he would have left Sherlock and gone to the clinic. Yes, simple ordinary day. Sherlock wouldn't have seen his family without him, probably would have fought Mycroft tooth and nail to stay in the flat. Would have been a different day entirely.

Sherlock never really liked explaining things, not the personal things that he thought didn't matter; otherwise he was explaining everything else. He really was brilliant in the sense, but lacking in a lot of social areas. He must have really grown up without a lot of contact with people. Maybe that's why he is so standoffish. John couldn't know for sure. He could have just been born like that. A sociopath,

_High functioning,_ he could hear Sherlock correcting in the past, yes that was the key words right there. He was managing his own problem to an extent and by all means not harming anyone, physically. Of course, maybe John would learn that wouldn't be true either.

Who knows with Sherlock Holmes?

"Hmm, Mmm," Sherlock's voice came through the dark and John felt like he was going to say something until he realized, Sherlock was asleep.

Fast asleep with even breaths and certain surrealism about him that John was enticed quickly by. He wondered what sorts of gibberish Sherlock said in his sleep.

He fought with himself to stay up and listen or suddenly give in to being tired. He shifted to his side gently and the bed creaked a bit, but there was no sign of him waking next to him. So, John closed his eyes, rubbed his wounded scarred shoulder, that normally found a way to sneak some pain in at night, he forgot easily. Now drifting into sleep listening to Sherlock's light breathing and a few noises escaping the floor boards from downstairs.

Maybe today had gone exactly as it should have.

* * *

**Hi guys, Hope Thanksgiving was good for you all!**

** Had a hard time not making a jump to Sherlock and John suddenly having feelings for each other and snogging it up. ha. Can't say it will come to that, can't say it wont. John has some stirrings, but Sherlock doesn't do relationships and Mycroft is forcing the idea upon him. **

**Hold on, I promise you will know what Sherlock did to create a wave of rumors in his family. I hate to make permanent cliff hangers.**

**-I've gotten the cover art done, drew it yesterday~ If you want to check it out go to my profile page and click my DeviantArt outgoing link. I will have more fanart coming soon~~ If you draw fanart from my story, please please show me, I will adore you for it :3**

**Thankyou for the follows and reviews-You guys are really helping me write this~**


	10. Formal Attire Required

**X**

Two hours John really? You've been holding back, normally it takes one and a half. Sherlock already assumed this would happen and that the good Doctor would start this up at this hour. He was so tired. Yes, so so tired. He wasn't going to deal with it. Not in the slightest. How dare he do this now.

"John." He really wanted to swat at him, kick him out of the bed, smack him with his freezing hand. John was facing him, laying upon his side, snuggled so deep into the blankets, Sherlock knew once he awoke he would most likely panic feeling trapped. Because, in a simple sense. He was having a nightmare and those normally ended in him awaking in cold sweats and a yelp that at the quietest nights Sherlock could hear downstairs in his own bedroom. Only occurs when he has been stressed, more than likely knowing the events of the day. Sherlock grumbled and attempted to stretch the blanket further, tugging it and making his movements as alerting as possible. "John wake up."

Oh he was about to kick him when John finally stirred, his brows furrowed downward and his lips matched, looking upset. Sherlock's seen that expression heavy on John's face only after he'd done something very not-good. Mostly having to do with feelings and how he had disregarded them to get information. John thought he didn't consider them, he was wrong.

The more emotional the person the better the chances of information extraction. Of course he considered the emotional state of a witness or victim, more importantly _the suspect_. Oh that was most intriguing.

Back at the matter at hand, Sherlock stuck his cold finger out of the blanket he was so deep under and pushed it against John's cheek, pressing down, "John. I'm being completely serious here; if you do not wake I will kick you off."

John's nose wrinkled and he tightened his blankets with a huff, but still looking distressed from whatever nightmare he was having in his REM sleep. Rapid Eye Movement, was clear in this situation and Sherlock took note of the way John seemed to ignore him. Oh, yes John's subconscious was tricky like that. So tricky. He poked him harder, but John just whimpered pathetically and now Sherlock was getting impatient. So, he stuck both icy cold hands on either side of his slightly warm cheeks and shook his head slightly, "Would you snap out of it and let me sleep in peace?"

John's eyes snapped open and he yelped while his whole body jerked forward, Sherlock snapped back against the wall not calculating his thrash forward instead of—"_Ah! No!"_ John cried, his body twisted in two blankets, he . . . well. He panicked.

His body thrashed around as he let out a string of curses, Sherlock shriveled against the wall and retracted his hands, "Oh!"

John had jerked around so much his blankets were practically strangling him, his eyes wide as saucers with sudden panic, he was seen thrashing all the way to the floor with a; _THUD_. And a, "God Dammit!"

John had taken the blankets with him and as hard as Sherlock clung to his end, he was pulled over to the edge of the bed and unsuccessful. The cold hit him without mercy. There was an expected silence that followed that Sherlock knew was John rubbing the back of his head and arse, trying to suddenly piece together why he was on the floor. Actually, he would soon come to an irrational conclusion of it being his fault. Somehow it always was.

"Sherlock? Christ! What was that for?" John's head popped up from the side, looking stressed and very much in a tizzy. Sherlock grumbled about him not thinking it through enough. For keeping him up for an hour. _Not letting him sleep_. Now his blanket was gone and, "I'm freezing, give me the blanket."

John was upset now, no shocker there. He untangled himself with irritated movements and sat up upon the floor, looking over to be a few inches from Sherlock's expectant expression filled face. "Oh, Uh," he cleared his throat, "What—er . . . What are you doing on my side of the bed . .?"

Sherlock looked at him instead of his freezing hands and a very peculiar, very unfamiliar sort of . . . thing. Made its way from his stomach to his throat. John had never really been that close to him before. Never been that . . . close to examine. _To see._

Yes, firm hold on his strong gaze that tore into Sherlock with a sort of hidden surprise. He had been drinking wine there was a smell on his breath, used a traditional razor not an electric, chapped lips said dehydrated and now Sherlock was having a hard time concentrating due to his hair being ruffled which was a really rare feature that he wasn't too sure he'd seen before. He found it rather strange he liked it?

"You're making a ridiculous face; I'm not sure what to get from it." John was saying. Sherlock was now aware of the longing expression he held and now felt very flustered, "Oh, um. You had a nightmare, you fell due to your need of two blankets, and now there are none couldyoupleasehandme it." He stuck his hand over the bed and snagged a corner, tugging softly to imply.

John frowned, "Oh," he looked down as if embarrassed than attempted to stand, fumbling a bit.

"Do remember you're lack of proper trousers John." Sherlock muttered, averting his eyes as when John stood, not close to him at the least, but still stood—his crotch was at eye level.

John practically fell over trying to nab the crochet blanket and use it to be decent, "Oh! God." He cursed and wrapped it around his waist, "Wow is it chilly, _whew_." He let out a very shaky breath. Sherlock noticed. John's been a little past nervous a lot recently, re-occurring shaky intake and shifty eyes. What could that be about?

"Well? Scoot back over will you? I'd like my warm side back before I lose a toe."

Sherlock shuffled over with the blanket wrapping him up, "I wonder why you always call _me_ dramatic."

"Oh hell, what time is it?" he fumbled in and dipped the bed, shivering, "I had a horrible nightmare, yes." He confirmed Sherlock's words, sighing. Then proceeded to double the blankets again.

"Do tell?" Sherlock snipped out.

"Oh, well I was standing in—"

A loud clearing of the throat stopped John from continuing and then Sherlock shifted over to look at him sternly, "Are you really that disabled when half asleep?"

John frowned back, "At least I didn't just turn seven shades of pink a moment ago." he tossed the blanket over himself and huffed, clearly showing that was his final words, "Could tell even in this lighting."

Sherlock knew all about final words, "You should really stop drinking wine and hitting on my relatives." He ground out. He knew saying that would entice John to fuss, to say something more. His smile faded when he said nothing. How could John lay there when he just accused him of something he obviously didn't do? Where was his dignity he always clung to?

Oh, that must have left with his pants.

Sherlock faced the wall and grumbled further, he felt a very strong need to get revenge on John for no good reason than to just do it. He felt he deserved it.

He was most _definitely not_. _Blushing._

**X**

John held onto his sheets tight, very tightly. However, six or seven hours later, he did not have that nightmare again. Standing in a burning building with smoke clouding everything he tried to see. It was dreadful. No, this time he awoke with a different tone than earlier.

"Mr. Watson? It's an earlier hour I'm very aware, however you have a certain person downstairs that needs your attention."

Mycoft? That was the older Holmes brother waking him this early. Sunlight streaming into the room, John saw him in the door way. Dressed as proper as before, and he stood with a dark black suit and purple tie, his face was serious. John stirred lazily. "_What?"_

"My brother is downstairs is bound to cause a scene with the parents, I have proper clothes for you now, do get dressed and come down before it gets . . . _out of hand_." He sounded irritated but took time to put the clothes at the end of the bed and walk out of the room, closing the door. John rubbed his eyes and ran a hand down his face, trying to force himself to deal with whatever he was about to deal with.

Not as cold as last night, thank god-wait. _What had happened last night? Sherlock woke him?_ John remembered hazily,

_Sherlock had blushed last night? Whatever for? _

His eyes flicked to the clothes and had a dreadful fear as to walking downstairs in unknown attire that Mycroft possibly picked out. No top hat as he could see, so it couldn't be too flashy. He sat up anyhow and shook the thoughts of last night out of his intermediate thoughts. His eyes flicked to the empty side of the bed, blankets shoved over near him as if tossed aside, pillow bundled in the corner. He clicked the bedside lamp on with a heavy lazy sigh. He was surprised he wasn't awoken sooner, the sunlight coming through the thick blinds; John noted they were tripled to deliberately keep sunlight out, it was almost noon. His phone confirmed it, however he wasn't sure how long the battery would last because he didn't bring his charger, and he frowned at that simple miscalculation. Hopefully no one tried to reach him before they left later today. Which he hoped was the plan; he was feeling a tad homesick for his quiet flat with a warm fireplace and Mrs. Hudson's warmed cocoa. That made him smile; he did hope his landlady's mother was doing well. I'm sure she will tell him of the details when they see her.

The clothes were well fit. However Mycroft knew of his exact measures for a suit, he would never know. Black and soft as silk, though not quite that texture. He smoothed down the waist coat vest that snugged against his light blue collared shirt. His grey tie took some time to remember how to knot correctly, but he was successful in a matter of time that wasn't too embarrassing. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, across the hall, full length mirror he didn't look too shabby. Not bad, he just wished he could dry his hair quicker after the shirt shower. It definitely woke him up, tell you that. Last he wore a suit was to his sister's wedding, that seemed a life time ago. He couldn't make out how the Holmes brothers wore these sorts of clothing on a daily basis. Mycroft more so than Sherlock, but he wasn't too far behind.

They must have grown up with the mindset, given the money they must have had when young. If Mycroft could afford this house when he was just starting out.

John ran a hand through his wet hair, involuntarily slicking it back, before exiting and heading past the balcony. It was very bright in the hallway illuminating the wooden stairs, bouncing off the railing and onto the festive autumn decorations that hung around the bottom of the banister. Multicolored leaves and little berries attached to branches, reached around the ends. John was acknowledging how well it worked with the mahogany, when he was whistled at.

Brendon stood by the door as he seemed to station during the day, he smiled sweetly as John passed the last step, and his hands dug into his pockets as he smiled back, "Good morning."

Brendon nodded, "Yes, morning. I see you have conformed your clothing," he gestured to John's off black suit. His smile placid.

John felt the compliment behind the words and his smile widened, he looked to the floor in bashful manner despite himself, "Ha, well thank you Brendon, thanks? uh, have you seen—"

"Sherlock is it? Yeah, he's in the study, you know the one with the fireplace, and well. I've heard he's playing with the children."

"_The children?"_ John looked down the hallway, but only saw a few people in the ballroom. He looked anyhow in surprise even if he couldn't see the study from where he stood. "Uh, okay right. Thanks then." He started to walk his way slowly down the hallway. He felt like maybe he had conformed, not sure if he liked it. Being all fancy and padded up. He felt like everyone was looking at him, when it was of course the opposite. _Would he run into Mrs. Holmes?_

So far, the giant window filled room was mostly decant, mostly small conversations at a few white covered tables left over from last night. No one he recognized. He smiled at the one in the hallway, tall lean woman who looked a bride with her fluffy white dress. He smiled maybe a little too large, she was beautiful and he wanted to let her know by flicking his eyes over her. It was subconscious for, John Watson has high respects for woman, but she smiled painfully. As if she wasn't okay with him looking at her at all.

Oh. It was the relationship with Sherlock. Of course that man was always involved in his affairs regarding women; if this rumor got past these walls he would be doomed. So, he passed her with a sidestep into the study.

Stopping in the doorway he noticed Mycroft first, leaning near the entrance to the room with an appearing frown on his lips. He had his phone clasped in his hand as if he had just been looking at it, however his eyes were on the next person John noticed.

Sherlock hand his back to them, knelt down in front of the fireplace, colorful playing cards in front of him as if he were playing solitaire. However, the three young children were hustled near him, holding the same ones putting them in piles. There were at least ten three inch piles of cards.

There was a woman, who looked to be the mom of the children by the way she was hawk eyeing all of the small ones. She sat in he chair Mycroft had been in last night, adjacent to the one John was sitting in, was the father. Guessed by the way he was smiling at the woman when one of the children laughed.

"You're looking well together," Mycroft said next to him. John looked at him seeing he was now looking back at his phone. Apparently he was busy, but not so much so to attempt a compliment. "Poor tie knot, however."

He looked down at it not seeing a problem, "Oh, well. Yes it's been a while since I had practiced," He looked back to Sherlock who hadn't moved but was appearing to be chatting to one of the little girls about a card he held up. It was a blue one. He didn't notice or make an effort to John's presence. Clearly he had to know. "Uh, what's going on here then?"

Mycroft snorted silently, "He's been at that all morning. Took over the game and disregarded the rules. Children don't seem to mind however," his voice got low, "Parents of these particular children ahead of us, are highly respected and take their kids safety as top priority."

"Don't most parents?" John smiled back trying to lighten the mood, Mycroft frowned at him. So he changed the subject to his other curious question, "He changed the rules?"

"Yes. Took over and now he's categorizing and sorting them based on color and numerical appearance." He scoffed, "Childish notion."

John opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock countered un-expectantly from across the room, drawing their attention, "_No_. Wrong. They were playing it all wrong it only made sense I step in," he ground out before turning his head in Mycroft's direction, "And if I didn't I would surely go _mad_ thinking—" he stopped abruptly and immediately stood from his crouching position. And, John was a little stunned.

Sherlock has worn some fancy attire in the past. Nothing to this extent. Black tailcoat fluttered behind him as he turned to face them, snug black pin striped under vest and black tie against the deep violet silk undershirt with the collar flipped up and poking out of the sleeves. His thin slender hands were clasping a few yellow cards, which flipped throughout his fingers in a jutted sudden motion, however John met his eyes with the same wide expression.

Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock ripped his eyes from his blogger to look down, "Yes. Um, mad. I'd have gone mad," his foot backed up and he hit a stack of green cards that fluttered over into the red pile. One of the girls complained, Sherlock just looked at it and his eyes flicked everywhere but John as he said, "_Lost cause anyhow_."

"Yes. Do stop interfering with their game Sherlock, I'd like to have a word." Mycroft said before walking out of the room with a manner that said he be followed. Sherlock rolled his eyes but flung the cards he held behind him and then stepped past the frowning parents.

He looked at John as he passed. Unreadable expression, however so strong John felt frozen in place. He was struck so hard by that look in his flat mates eyes, he swore his heart stopped.

And then it was over and Sherlock was waltzing into the ballroom to talk in private with his brother.

John breathed out a heavily held breath and put a hand to his abdomen as if the feeling there could be diagnosed and treated by strong will.

_Oh, he hoped this wasn't what it felt like. _

He didn't have much time to think about it before he was motioned over to join their conversation by Mycroft. John pushed his hand through his hair nervously, took a breath, and then headed over. Coming onto their conversation halfway through.

"Not telling him on purpose, you know this." Sherlock was finishing a stern lecture to something his brother had started the conversation with. He had his back to John but knew he was coming, naturally, "You called him over anyhow, despite my wishes."

John hesitated before clearing his throat behind him, "Didn't know how private this was, if I need to leave I will gladly."

"Stay, Sherlock needs to tell you something—"

"Get out of my personal affairs, they don't concern you." Sherlock interrupted. Glaring at his brother and completely disregarding John. He himself wasn't sure what to do. He shifted uncomfortably.

"You need to tell him because he could help fix it. Sherlock, this has gone on too long and I only meddle in your affairs due to it _severely_ affecting me as well." Mycroft turned on his heel to walk out of the ballroom and into the hallway. Sherlock followed on his toes after him with an attempt to grab his arm and force him to face him. Mycroft swiftly avoided him and took up a conversation with Brendon very quickly who was overjoyed to get his attention. Sherlock was instantly repulsed by the eagerness and John found himself smiling at Mycroft's clever rouse.

"Ugh, he would pull such a desperate act." Sherlock turned around quickly and bounded up the stairs with an elegant frustrated manner. John followed subconsciously.

"We need to talk then?" He asked, "Why upstairs?"

"More private. I don't need any more of my relatives listening in." Sherlock didn't face him as they made it into his room, he shuffled in near the desk and sat down in a huff. Watching the floor as his hands came to bridge across his chin.

"Why so rushed by Mycroft? Why is he being so, uh, so pushy?"

Sherlock sighed, "Oh that's just how he is. Assuming I need to tell you of the big secret."

_"Oh?"_

At that Sherlock finally looked at John again, his gaze just as unreadable. However they flicked over him quickly and then John had noticed his hard swallow, "You look . . ."

John smiled brilliantly awaiting the compliment that his eyes now held. However feeling a little self-conscious by that look. The sudden smile seemed to scare his friend off, Sherlock finished with a lame, "_Different."_

Disappointment? Was that what John was feeling just now? What was that about? He frowned but then doubled back on it. Sherlock noticed.

"Well I think you look incredible. There. I can give a proper compliment, unlike you Sherlock. Do get on with the big secret before I find my breakfast downstairs then. Hmm?" He blurted out.

Sherlock sat straight and John saw that pink on his cheeks again before he cleared his throat loudly, cringing at himself as if he didn't expect it to be, "Yes. Well no point in hiding it. I see no means of you helping at all. You knowing makes no difference and you've already met my mother, sadly but not sadly isn't present in the house at the moment. I saw she had set out a cake display, real silver means it's more _important_," he put air quotes on 'important.' "Says she's going out to get that cake that I failed to get due to the crazy cat lady who stood plainly in my way at the store and the more I think about it the more I think I ought to file some sort of complaint—"

"Get to the point then would you? Out with it!" John huffed in annoyance. He always veered the conversation to other things when he was uncomfortable.

He got an uncomfortable stare that lasted to an awkward one. John cleared his throat twice in this time and leaned on the door frame, impatiently waiting. "What is it?"

Sherlock stood, "They, my relatives," he paused and ran a hand through his own curly hair, looking almost nervous to say as if he feared John's judgment.

"Have good reason to believe I _murdered_ my father."

* * *

**Hi, Sorry I haven't gotten around to posting/but i should be back on track. I hope this little bit longer chapter made up for it~~**

** I've been distracted by new ideas for new fanfictions and I hope to write them way better than this one. I promise. This is still my first story and it's all an experiment/thankyou for taking part and reading.**

**Love you all~~~**

**Next chapter should be here soon. **


	11. Blue Buttons

Muffin was a bit tart for blueberry. Butter was making it too sweet however. John tried to chew it, but found it too dry now. Why was it so dissatisfying?

Sherlock sat on the other side of the white table they sat at alone in the ballroom. They had been there for an hour or so after Sherlock refused to admit more information on the statement he sprung up. He was tight lipped and stayed that way, even still. Sitting there, cross legged, eyes cast downward on the same muffin of his own, clasped between his fingers. Apparently he found it just as displeasing.

"Do you suppose you will ever talk about this?" John tried. His voice a quiet murmur as to avoid an echo. He dropped his muffin on his small china plate and wasn't the least upset it crumpled practically in half.

Sherlock's eyes had followed the movement, but he nodded, "Mycroft required I tell you, so I did."

"Since when do you do what people tell you, uh, let alone your brother?" He countered with his eyes narrowed.

Sherlock took another bite of his muffin, frowned, than tossed it onto John's plate. In which both didn't fit. And one rolled off the table. John scoffed, "Sherlock, that wasn't necessary."

He got a mocking expression, his flatmate lipped it back to him. "Forget it John. I did my charity for my dearest brother. I estimate another few months before he asks something like that again." His arm came down on the table lightly and he turned his head to gaze into the study where Mycroft was chatting with the parents. John followed his look to see one of the small three girls, about six or seven, making her way over to them. He put on a sweet smile.

"Hey, are you going to finish the color game?!" She accused, her brown hair in a pigtail and swaying as she ran, halting at the table edge.

Sherlock looked at her for a short while, seeming to be building up a resistance to her loud inquiry. He then narrowed his eyes and ground out, "No."

She frowned but seemed optimistic, "Please? Annie wants, wants to try the card trick."

"No go away."

"Sherlock," John interrupted, drawing her attention, "Hi, what's your name I don't believe we've met?"

"I'm called Nikki's a lot." She said as if been asked frequently by her relatives these past days, "Your hair is wet." She laughed a lightly, "Did you just get up?"

John saw at the corner if his eye Sherlock perk his head up but he tried to ignore it, "Oh, yes I did. An hour or so. Um, Nikki? That's a really cute dress. I like the blue buttons," he smile out, again noticing Sherlock adjacent to him smirk. "I'm sure Sherlock here can play with you girls later, after he eats his muffins." He pushed the plate over as he spoke.

Sherlock's smirk fell and the little cute girl seemed to think it over before nodding and walking away to join her sisters.

He was distracted by the glares from the parents, but got brought back to his friend across the table when Sherlock let out a short laugh, "Nikki seems to be more observant than I thought. Oh, and her buttons John? That the best you can compliment a girl, let alone a judgment to why you cannot hold a relationship for more than a month,"

"That's because of you. I'm a good at complimenting, thank you very much. How do you think I get the first date?"

"Oh yes, suppose you are." He mumbled quickly pushing the plate back over to John's side of the table.

"Yes." John was really put off by the sudden agreement, however he understood why when Sherlock let out a smug, "They all get incredible or is that just me?"

"Get off your high horse before I kick you off," John laughed to cover his slight embarrassment and Sherlock sent a flashy smile in his direction that created that feeling in his abdomen. This made his laugh turn nervous at the end, so he chose to hide his face with his cup of warm coffee.

Sherlock leaned forward and his long fingers curled around the cup after his sip, John was a little startled at first, but he seemed to be warming his hands. He still frowned at then unasked notion, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"Too hot, your coffee is normally not this warm. Why did you drink it before it cooled?" He looked at him with distinct curiosity.

John stuttered, "I just had miscalculated? Why do you read into everything?" He accused with a high pitch he didn't mean for. His face flashed with heat and Sherlock had opened his mouth to answer but his eyes looked up past him at Mycroft who waltzed over.

"Told him then?" He asked after eyeing their positions across the table. Sherlocks hands still clasped around John's white coffee mug that hung in mid drink, below his chin.

"Yes. Of course." Sherlock muttered, "he needed to know."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and straightened his jacket, "Yes well, I suppose details were discussed?"

He got a blank stare from both of them so he rolled his eyes one more time saying, "Of course not."

"He didn't need to know." Sherlock contradicted.

John put down his mug with hands still attached, "Uh, yeah, no details. He refuses."

"Not important." Sherlock finally retreated, rubbing his hands then keeping them intertwined as he slouched and leaned his head on the back of his chair. "He can't help me as you seem to think he can."

"Who says I can't?" John defended. Mycroft talked over him, "Might as well, no. He cannot. However, he deserves to know. Tell him or I will."

"Whatever for? What's the point? Ugh, what a bore!" He drawled, closing his eyes and waving Mycroft to leave, "I don't care about these trivial rumors."

"You don't know the whole story."

John had been whipping his head back and forth like a child when their parents fought, he had no idea where to cut in or what to think. He saw Sherlock open an eye suggesting he did know the story. However he did raise a voice to the red headed girl headed over from e hallway, "Uh, well. Do you think this could be more private? Guys, there's company coming."

Sherlock saw her and his whole body slumped, "Oh god no."

His foot got whacked by Mycroft's cane as she was upon them now, a smile. Her dress black with red patterned flowers and golden jewelry covered her neck and wrists. She stood by Mycroft with a hand on his shoulder, "Hi, it's been a while boys."

"Charmed to see you again Marie." Mycroft smiled back and bowed very slightly. She seemed to like that. Her eyes landed on John as she was nodding, "Oh, this must be your date Mycroft?"

"Oh, no. My brothers . . . Of course Marie." He answered with clarity, his hand festering to Sherlock, who still slouched with his eyes closed. Her eyes narrowed, then flicked upward as if remembering his name. Maybe trying too hard to remember, "Sherlock isn't it? Yes, I heard you've been avoiding us all these past few gatherings," she laughed, "didn't know you had such a lovely partner here."

John looked up at her with surprise as she suddenly turned to look at him, "Oh, hello. I'm John Watson, yes." He smiled but kept his eye on Sherlock as he knew it was coming.

"Yes, hello Marie." Sherlock ground out, "still hooking up with former cops are we?" His eyes remained closed but somehow everyone guessed his eyes rolled. She just frowned, "Nice to meet you, John. I'm sure it must be hard to get along with the younger Holmes? He has a sort of record around here for being so mysterious." She snorted,

He looked at her as if she were daft, "Excuse me?"

She patted Mycroft on the shoulder while leaning on him, "Sherlock here has always avoided certain subjects. Came up with ridiculous accusations, haha. Mycroft do tell me why he is here?"

"Uh, no. What the hell?" John shook his head, catching the two's attention, "You obviously don't know him as well as you think, and I might go as far as to say your intimidated by his sudden accusations. I'm under notion that he keeps away due to relatives such as you." He stood and frowned at her with disappointment, "Excuse me." He pushed past them and walked his way down the hall. Not missing the stiff posture and sudden eyebrow raise of Sherlock when he passed.

Oh, why did that make him so crossed? What had just come over him? He normally kept his inner anger towards people who accused Sherlock of certain things. Certain untrue things.

What an informative morning it's been.

**X**

John's little outburst was well overdue, but to waste it upon his cousin Annamarie? Oh, it was pointless. She had too thick of a skull to comprehend most words of anger or frustration. It was useless and Sherlock wished he would have picked someone more important, so is to say; his mother for starters.

Never the less, it did startle him, John's tone and determination, and he was amused by his cop loving cousins face. Cop lover to such a kinky state Sherlock wished he hadn't noticed her thick jewelry, anything to cover the red marks from handcuffs. Not those fluffy safe ones, real ones by the size and shapes of the marks. That and her dress color.

He was done thinking of it.

Mycroft had apologized for John's words to her, obviously a sacrifice to get her pathetic gasping under control. He didn't envy his brother most days.

She had walked away the same manner as before, swinging herself around to display her bottom in an obnoxious manner. Oh he so hated his cousin Marie.

"Going after him then?" Mycroft had asked. Wasn't sure Sherlock really heard him, his brothers cologne had been so strong this morning, it lingered in the air so thick conversation was difficult. Although with John now gone there was less of a distraction. "What for?"

His brother shifted on his feet and his hand touched his pocket, must be itching to check it. Already been a half hour since his text from his PA who had not spent the night on purpose and now Sherlock suspected some small government crisis. He wasn't letting him leave before him.

"He just stood up for you, yes? You have more to chat about. Now is a good time to excuse yourself to accompany your Doctor."

"Oh fine." He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, small pockets, but still worked as a handhold. He found this material itchy, so he rolled his neck before following John. Only turning to mention, "I plan to leave weather mummy returns or not. I fear she will not."

Mycroft nodded, "Your never found of goodbye, it's to be expected."

"Hmm." He wasn't going to answer that. He scratched his neck under the collar, turning into the hallway.

What he did not count on was seeing Marie again. Indeed he made a point to never see her again. Ever. Yet, she was waiting for him near the staircase a frown on her face and a determined walk to him. Sherlock took a chance to look back over his shoulder but as he expected, Mycroft was gone taking a call. He should have seen this coming.

"Wish to talk further?" He started, seeing the door without its normal American bellboy, however, it wasn't where he wanted a scene. He leaned on the mantle, trying very hard to avoid eye contact. Her eyes were such an accusing brown.

"Don't think I don't know why your here._ Sherlock_." She pointed a manicured finger, "you and your brother are such twisted things. Monsters." Sherlock cringed but now looked to the high ceiling as she continued, "I know what you did. I know this won't go unpunished. How dare you come back here."

He sighed, "Unavoidably dragged along to this, gathering of sorts." He looked at her only once to look past and groan inwardly and outwardly at the man walking in. Her husband. Her tall and small brained/not much better than her, husband. His long short hair had been buzzed, he was in the military these past nine years since their last meeting. Oh how interesting. Although why he showed up, wasn't interesting in the least. He was here to pick a fight with him.

"I intend to leave in a matter of hours, could this wait for the next time?" Sherlock asked while swerving to the first step, "nine years from now sound okay?"

"Shut up, freak." Marie sneered, now getting violent due to her backup. Who in term said the same, "Shut it."

He shrugged, "one can only try to be civil." He was planning to advance up the stairs and demand him and John leave. Now.

"Did you think you could leave? I ought to call the police."

"Daniel, you have a lot in common with my partner, yes, he's here. You two should talk." Sherlock looked up the stairs. No need for him to be double teamed. They should be leaving.

"Yeah, call Scotland Yard." Marie said, "we found new evidence."

"Let's hear it then." Sherlock encouraged. His arms crossed.

She smiled, "Your mother told us you hated him. My sweet uncle had no reason to be hated."

"Treated you as such due to your similar image issues. That's hardly a motive, try harder next time." He advanced a step.

They were one behind him, "You know he was killed in this house, in the cellar. You even said you wished to kill him." She kept at it.

"Nothing solid yet, keep going." He went up a stair, "yes he was found dead here, yes I was in the room, no I never mentioned my hate for him that plainly out loud. I never really spoke much when young."

"In the room! Yes of course!" Daniel reeked of alcohol when voicing forward, "You were the only one in the room!"

Another step, "We had a nasty domestic, it was a heart attack. I don't see why explaining myself every time to the both of you does much good." He acended further, now almost halfway up the stairs.

"Keep in mind your mother Sherlock," Marie said, "what does this do to her image?"

"Keeps her the life of the party. Everyone wants to speak of her accused murderous son." Sherlock commented, turning to look if John had come out of the room. Of course he didn't. Oh this was getting tricky.

**X**

John's phone wasn't keeping its charge and he hoped no one was attempting to contact him. Especially Lestrade, he could use a distraction or an excuse to leave.

There was a few voices heading up into Sherlock's room, John sat on the bed looking out and thinking of hearing them. However he was still upset and maybe a bit embarrassed from what had happened. He didn't like how fast he lost it. It just seemed too much.

Poor Sherlock never had many people as a kid to stand up for him, let alone now. He felt obliged to at this point. Even if he had no idea as to what was going on.

It was now that he realized he recognized these voices traveling into the room. Sherlock was unmistakable, however it sounded like that woman Marie chatting too. He couldn't get what was exactly being said but it didn't sound friendly. He put his phone down and walked over to peak out down the balcony.

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs with Marie and some tall drunk man pointing fingers at him. John squinted to see what the hell they were talking about, only hearing snips of the conversation echoing to him. "What?"

Marie was pointing down the stairs saying something of Sherlock's mother and then the man shoved Sherlock slightly while booming about him avoiding a fight. This was enough for John to intervene on what was happening. He wanted it to stop, he knew a man willing to punch for a point when he saw him. Sherlock was calm as ever, he didn't seem to really care so much as he was slowly stepping up the stairs, why was he coming up here anyhow?

"Okay okay, can we tone it down a little, I'm sure we can work this out," he stepped down the stairs with his hand out, "What's going on guys?"

"Oh, just having an overdue conversation," Sherlock smiled his way.

"This doesn't involve you," the man slurred as John put himself in between the two of them and Sherlock.

"Well, no need to keep at this—" Sherlock started, however John sized him up, glaring at the man, "I think it involves me plenty. I happen to be involved if you like it or not."

"Because you're shagging this murderer?" The man scoffed and bend his head back in a small laugh that when his head came back to look at John, he saw a fist. A fist that punched him real hard in the jaw making him bounce back to grip the railing. Marie gasped,_"Oh my god!"_

John was on a high of rage and was about to continue until he knocked this guy out, but Sherlock's hands came on his shoulder, "We would be leaving in the meantime. Use some ice. He'll be —"

"Ah!" John swerved when the man retaliated with a heavy swing to his head, he dodged, punching him again in the same spot.

The guy had a hand to his sore jaw quickly, now fully back against the banister, however he did get a hit in on John's cheek. Wast too hard, John took it well. However he never liked to be punched my anyone let alone a scum like this guy.

"John?" Sherlock was behind him, "Stop_, stop_." He took hold of his shoulders again to stop him from tackling the guy. Who looked done physically but not verbal, "I could sue you for this, I could charge you."

The atmosphere didn't last too long as there was suddenly a cane poking through the railings from below to tap the tall man's legs. They all looked.

"Can we move this along?" Mycroft waved them to separate.

"You seen what he did!" Yelled the guy.

"He will be locked up I assure you Daniel. Now_. Get down here_." The last part of that was more of a threat and apparently this Daniel was more afraid of him than most, he shuffled down, grabbing his wife. She was staggering John and Sherlock with her eyes.

John flinched, still itching to end the man, but Sherlock had a strong hold on his shoulder and one snaked around his waist. "Yes, good that's over. Mycroft we will be leaving here shortly."

He got a nod, "Of course." He narrowed his eyes and everyone could guess this conversation was far from over. He walked the two lower than scum couple out of the area.

John was sucking in air trying to calm his nerves, what a roller coaster of emotions he just felt, "Get off me Sherlock."

Sherlock retracted his arms, "Oh, yes. Good punch." He smiled and crossed his arms uncomfortably. "well deserved."

"You going to tell me what's going on now!" John turned an accusing finger his way, "I'd say I earned some information."

Sherlock put his hands out, "Fine fine. Follow me. We need to get our things together anyhow we are leaving." He walked up the stairs.

"Now! Oh my god. Go," he pushed Sherlock to walk faster, "I better not get some ridiculous horse shit out of you."

"You're very upset at the moment." Sherlock said the obvious,

"_You think?_ I just got done listening to that guy call you a murderer."

"How are you so sure I'm not?" Sherlock suddenly stopped outside the door, John crossed his arms and stopped in front of him. "I'm not stupid Sherlock. I know you better than that."

"You don't know what happened. All the evidence lead to me, I could have killed him ten years ago."

"May I remind you that I'm practically your only friend. Don't try to convince me out of it."

This made Sherlock smile and continue into the room. Where he took a seat on the bed, "Right then." He clapped his hands together, "he died in the cellar in this very house, I had a motive I will give you that, however I did not kill him a heart attack did. If you ask how he came about that heart attack I will tell you I may of had a slight domestic with the man beforehand and it could have—"

'Whoa, calm down. Sherlock," John closed the door, "It sounds like you could be blaming yourself." He felt a lot calmer seeing this, reading between his words. John sat near him on the bed after turning the lamp on that sat on the side table.

Sherlock looked confused for a second, before crossing his legs and seeming to be more comfortable, "Your implying something?"

"Yes, if I were in your position I would. Well, I would assume it was my fault."

Sherlock looked at him than blinked, "I do assume it was my fault."

John sighed, "Oh Sherlock," he scooted closer, "this is why you haven't faced your family in nine years?"

"No. You have it wrong, John please do not become a psychiatrist and poke around in people's lives as such, your horrid at it." He frowned, "I do not feel guilty, if that's what your obviously implying."

"But you have to—" he stopped when a finger was in front of his face, shushing him, "uhh."

"It was caused by our argument, I am certain. I might have known of the man's blood pressure problems before he himself did, or of his other heart issues my father got no attention for. A mystery I cannot solve as to why." He let out a breath and put down his hand, "my father was a horrid man and I am not feeling guilty about his death whatsoever." He finished with a long silence afterward. John sat there in it trying to keep up. Was he saying he did it on purpose, knowing the man would have a heart attack? How could he have known?

"No. Not an intentional conclusion on my part. I just, . . . Miscalculated."

"What were you fighting about?"

"Not important." He said, crossing his arms defensively, his eyes looked to the floorboards. John sighed beside him leaning a little closer for some sort of comfort, "I'm sorry to say I don't understand. What gave your family the right to blame you for it?"

"They knew I hated him. They had always found me . . . Strange."

"Who wouldn't?" John almost laughed, but stopped as he got a pained expression on Sherlocks face suddenly, "I just mean it's no reason."

"They always wanted an excuse to expel me from their little, gatherings. And so it's mutual on both parts that I do not wish to see them again."

"What about your mother?"

"She's dealt with it. She knows she can't really fix this. No one can, they are all too convinced." He practically growled, "I'm ready to leave." John almost said something when he was looked over suddenly, "Why are you so close?" Sherlock asked.

John's face heated, "Well I was attempting—"

"I don't need comforting John, I need space from these people." At that John moved away and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Not from you."

"Oh." He blurted, that feeling back in his stomach, "right. Well I'm sure we can leave once your uh," he cleared his throat as Sherlock had moved back closer to him, "once your mother is back.."

"No need." He leaned closer, "your pupils are dilated again. . ."

"Bloody things do it on their own," loudly cleared his throat this time, "uh, must be the lighting." He attempted to scoot away, but it got uncomfortable how Sherlock moved with him. So he stood upruptly. "So! What of Mycroft then?"

Sherlock stopped staring at him to frown, "ugh, I sense he will be displeased by the violence. Only causes a tremor in the rumors being spread about me further." He fiddled with John's phone that had sat on the end table, "no, he won't let it go. As far as forcing me to tell you of the situation I won't let that go. . . Personally."

"Up to you I suppose, do you think we can get a cab from here?"

"No, we will need to walk down the drive, make our way to the next street, it'll be busy there. It's also gotten a lot colder outside I can tell by the fogged windows, mother never sets the heat on with more than four people in the house." He looked from the windows back at John, " are we don't then. About my father?"

"For now." John shifted and crossed his arms sternly, "you might not believe in my powers of psychology, I however, see your feelings on your sleeves sometimes."

He looked on his sleeves, "Alright then." He looked back up, "don't worry of the clothes I see you thinking of changing, just grab your old ones."

"We are going to take these?" John asked,

"Yes, most definitely. I'll discard the long sleeve it's itchy." Sherlock moved his shoulders around and then stood and pocketed John's phone, "in your case I advise you wear things like this more often."

"Whatever for?" John looked down at himself, feeling a little flushed still.

"You look as attractive as ever," he had closed he distance looking as if he may even lean in for a kiss. John's heart kept and his stomach did flip flops, "uh, I uh. . .uhm."

"Maybe then you can keep your dates." He side swept past him out the door, pausing to say, "Compliments on ones appearance is child's play, I choose to keep those opinions to myself on everyone."

"Uh. . . " John still struggled to comprehend what just happened.

"Not you of course." He gave a wink and a smile, "I rather like your compliments, and I see from your red face . . . You immensely enjoy _mine_."

John was now completely frozen, his mouth agape as Sherlock left him to hurry his way downstairs. Whatever that was about he had no idea. Since when does he get compliments?

His stomach fluttered and he put his hand over it, a really odd happy feeling came over him and he could not stop smiling. Sherlock Holmes is one complicated person. Oh yes. But to say he is predictable not even close. He is and will always be, just Sherlock.

_His Sherlock._

Yes he rather liked the sound of that.

* * *

**No, its not the ending. It could have been but it felt a bit rushed/ I'm sure the next chapter will be the conclusion. They still have a messy flat to get back to.**

**Yay, you know the secrets~ and John stood up for him, finally. Right? I think Sherlock knows how John feels about him, and is now feeling a bit smug as ever.**

**Sorry for some really bad grammar mistakes. My ipad has been giving me problems i had to upload this a different way without much editing.**


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